


Daedraborn

by sweetdefault



Series: Consumerism [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Complete, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Multiple Dragonborn, Multiple Realities, Multiple Universes, Other, Romance, Sequel, Tragedy, a story in which everything must get worse before it gets better, also a nonbinary dragon spirit and a thief adopt a ten year old dragonborn with a pet chicken, and people struggle to obtain control over the actions that impact their lives, ill add more tags later, miraak doesnt get smut im sorry but relevant chapters are 22 34 36 38, multiple dovahkiin, oblivion, smut chapters are marked for convenience because we're all heathens here, tags updated 12/2/2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-01-04 07:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 52
Words: 309,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21193907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetdefault/pseuds/sweetdefault
Summary: When the sky fell at the Throat of the World, she fell with it. The universe ended; a new world began, one where the et'Ada of the realms began to stir and take notice of the madness spearing Nirn. Lord Sheogorath's actions in interfering with the flow of Time is a grave concern for the Princes governing Oblivion, one that will soon spur a supernatural war if not dealt with. As Princes step forward and play politics with the lives of those she cares about, a former Dragonborn must navigate different et'Ada while simultaneously dealing with the encroaching threats of a Prince of Madness and the animosity shared between her compatriots in the Thieves Guild and the new Dragonborn.Her name is Kara, and she hates the Riften Ratways.





	1. joorre that no longer dance

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the sequel of a daedric desire!!!! that story covers the dark brotherhood and explains a lot of background around this BUT my goal is to make it so that as chapters are added u can read this story as a stand-alone and understand any weird terms or what-not SO NEVER FRET IF U DONT FEEL LIKE READING 39 CHAPTERS. 
> 
> as always canon veers off course  
this story primarily focuses on the thieves guild and daedric princes  
a small smattering of dark brotherhood and skyrim civil war stuff will be found eventually  
enjoy  
i love u

“Hey, you! You’re finally awake!"

They’re a mess of stares and horror as they stare the shining, amused eyes of the Nord in the face. They know the words he speaks, they’ve heard them many, _many _times before, but never from this perspective.

When they stare at the man they know to be ‘Ralof,’ the reality of the punishment passed on by their Daedric Prince sets in. They have been taken from the graceful, Aedric form of their true _dov _self, and forced to not only reside among landwalkers but to _be _one of the ground itself. Their legs are long and lanky, no scales grace their skin, and instead of mane and whiskers and strong, _fiercesome _wings, they have meager arms with tiny hands and no claws. Their teeth are no fangs, their eyes do not glow, and the humiliating form of the _joor_, mortal, _human_ lacks even the hint of a tail. If they were but a dormant, silent, _obedient _spirit of a Dragonborn they could live with the body; the Dragonborn would be the true landwalker, then, and they could find solace in the depths of the hero’s mind, but they do not have that privilege.

“You look pale as a _ghost_, friend,” the Nord continues with a pause. “You were one of those trying to cross the border, weren’t you? Walked right into that Imperial ambush—Same as us, as that thief over there, and that refugee from Morrowind.”

_Sithis, no. _The thought bleeds into their mind. _No, no, no. Kara, no. Why are you here, joor? You aren’t the Dragonborn anymore. You’re not even—_

“Damn you, Stormcloaks!” The horse thief is a glaring, grimy mess of a man. His dark eyes reflect the growing feeling Zaammeytiid’s stomach. It is a churning, bitter emotion, and though it wants to shoot out and bellow and _roar _they have more than enough _order _to keep the innate desires of a _dov _under control. The horse thief, however, does not, and he turns to the Nord to his left and growls, “Skyrim was _fine _until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy! If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell—”

“Shush. Your fate was sealed from your first breath, _joor_,” They speak their first words of a landwalker, of a pathetic, heinous, upright _abomination _of the ground-crawling races scattered across Skyrim. Zaammeytiid does not know if their eyes are a certain way, or their hair obtuse, but they imagine themself offering a mild, neutral look as they watch the horse thief without pity. “You have a _dez_ in this world, bound to an archer’s arrows. You will die this day, _joor_. Cease your _pahlok, _arrogant _mey_.”

There’s a moment of respite from the annoyances of the scene they have lived through so many times. They enjoy the peace. They look at the unconscious woman to their right, the one whose body slants against their own. Kara’s limp form has yet to awaken, but she is the epitome of a classic Dremora: obsidian-black skin, rich red lines hinting at toned muscle, and though they cannot make out her eyes they imagine they are dark, or perhaps the ruby red of the Lord of Debauchery. It is _his _fault she is like this; Zaammeytiid does not doubt for a second Sanguine’s involvement in restoring the deceased woman to life. They can still picture the scene in their head; it was but a universe’s cycle ago that their eyes saw Kara’s remains smeared across a mountain cliff from the impact of her fall.

_Better alive than dead, joor. I do not know the reason behind your presence, but you must live. You have a laas I cannot follow. _Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow in resolve. Perhaps they cannot escape what their Daedric Prince threw them into, but they know Kara can. They will seek it for her. It is the least they can do for a _joor _that offered them so much.

They find their eyes move past the _definitely-not-dunmer_ woman’s figure and to a finely-dressed man sitting to Kara’s right. He is gagged, the now-shamed Jarl of Windhelm, and they know his name to be _Ulfric Stormcloak. _Though they don’t expect much at first glance, they pause when they realize he stares at them. The man is a hulking picture of royalty, save the gag, but beyond his wrinkles and stubble and tense posture is a gaze locked solely with theirs. They stare back; they see the glance as a challenge and even with their self-control they struggle not to indulge in their ego and dominative streak.

It is the innate nature of a _dov_, for even as a fleshy mortal they are still_ Zaammeytiid. _

“Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm,” the blond Nordic man, Ralof, chimes in and breaks the silence. He meets their gaze and nudges in the direction of Ulfric.

“What’s wrong with him?” The thief blurts out without pause.

_So much for silence. Krosis. _Zaammeytiid blinks in disinterest.

“Watch your tongue! You speak to the true High King of Skyrim!” Ralof interjects; his brows scrunch and he stares the thief down. It’s almost intimidating, but Zaammeytiid cannot find interest in the mortal matters as Ralof begins to lecture the thief.

What annoys them is the fact Ulfric Stormcloak continues to stare at them.

They like to think their expression becomes dark, for the _dov _individual succeeds in forcing Ulfric to avert his gaze.

_“Beyn, _it is rude to stare,” Zaammeytiid growls, but it is disgustingly weak compared to the true _screeches _they wish they could produce. They consider shouting a moment, but they are in a cart with bound hands and armed guards escorting them. The last thing they want is to have arrows chucked into their back. _Especially _when they told the thief it will be him that dies to archers.

The sound of pained, aching groans fills their ears. They snap upright and turn to Kara’s stirring form.

To see the former Dragonborn awaken _next _to them—opposed to a conjoined mind, soul, and body—is bizarre. But they stare and watch and look and wait until the woman forces herself to sit upright. Kara looks exhausted when her eyes open. To Zaammeytiid’s surprise, Kara’s eyes are not black nor ruby red. The former Dragonborn’s irises reflect a cruel reddish-brown; it is a color that is not bloody like the realms of Oblivion nor mortal like the races spanning the continent of Nirn. They don’t know what to think of it, but they find themself watching her carefully for the slightest hint of _something_.

“I’m in a cart again. I’m…” Kara’s eyes widen. She takes deep breaths.

“Don’t panic.” Zaammeytiid informs her, tone perhaps a touch too sharp. But when the woman’s breathing delves into shorter and shorter, more and more frantic intakes, Zaammeytiid sees no choice; the _dov _turns to the bound woman and hisses. _”Kaan drem ov,_ Kara! Get ahold of yourself—”

“Shut up back there!” Their driver, an Imperial soldier clad in metal plating, shouts without pause.

But it works. Zaammeytiid watches the innate magic of _dov, _the thu’um, purge the panic from Kara’s body. The sight of the woman calming from the shout of _Kyne’s Peace _pleases the _dov _individual greatly. They almost miss the fact that _all _other prisoners in the truck, Ralof, the thief, Kara, and Ulfric, now stare at them with wide eyes. The thief’s gaze contains horror; it appeals to Zaammeytiid’s _dovah _spirit. They do not let the combined gazes hinder them; they raise both brows and sit back in their seat as if nothing is wrong and their wrists are not bound in front of them.

“That—That is the language the Greybeards speak—Is it not?” They think the Nord asking is Ralof, but Zaammeytiid already feels a lapse of memory come on as their mind goes blank on names of the individuals.

_Kara, how do you remember these joorre? _Zaammeytiid blinks.

“The language of the Voice—The—Way of the Voice! How…” The blond Nord continues. The _dov _person faintly recalls his name being one that starts with an _R. _Perhaps _Ralph? _Ralph rambles on about something Zaammeytiid isn’t inclined to listen to. The subject involves honor or hermits or other words beginning with _H. _Ralph seems insistent to passionately blab about the topic to the point Zaammeytiid would feel bad if not for the fact they are no mortal and certainly not a true landwalker.

“I said _shut up!” _The Imperial driver curses at the five prisoners after Ralph repeats his statements on the Stormcloak army for the third time.

The cart continues to roll forward. The trots and whines of tired horses fills the air with that of faint wildlife, shouting soldiers, and a heavy gate being opened. Zaammeytiid turns their head forward and catches sight of Helgen’s stone walls. For a town that is doomed to be decimated under the wrath of an enraged god, it looks very sturdy. They glance back at their fellow prisoners and catch Kara frowning widely at the massive crowd of prisoners and Imperial guards. “This isn’t right...”

“I agree, dunmer. But this is Skyrim now. Imperial soldiers tear through towns… Leave cities plundered. Corruption runs rotten in their wake.” Ralph shakes his head and grits his teeth. From their peripheral, Zaammeytiid observes the bound Nord sighing and slumping his shoulders. “This is Helgen, friends. I used to be a sweet on a girl here once. Vilod would make mead with juniper berries mixed in, and my brothers and I would get into fist-fights playing soldier one another. Funny, these Imperial walls used to make me feel so safe…”

If not for their order, resolve, the will blessed by the pact forged with the Prince of Order long ago, they would find their desire for destruction too much to pass up the opportunity of ravaging such a weak, open band of landwalkers. Zaammeytiid feels the bloodlust even under the surface of their skin. They can taste the urge on their lips, feel themself salivate, but they hold the urge back and shut their eyes as the carts—and there are many, far more than what they expect from this scene—continue to pull into Helgen. They hear a child complain nearby about going indoors and they smile faintly at how beautiful the foreshadowing is.

“Would you call it a work of art?” They direct the question to Kara as the wagons stop. They can hear Imperial soldiers flank the carts on all sides, but they heed them little.

“This? No? _No._ Definitely not.” Kara’s response is delayed. “This reminds me of a military state. I don’t—I do not believe in them. Never have. Call me what you will but this is outrageous, even for Skyrim.”

“Even for Skyrim?” Ralph asks.

“—You wouldn’t—Nevermind. Forget I said anything,” and it grows quiet once more.

Zaammeytiid opens their eyes and watches Imperials order the prisoners off carts one-by-one. They recall, vaguely, how the prisoners are meant to line up while an Imperial officer with brown hair and pasty skin drills them for names and origins. Instead, each prisoner is asked the questions once they are directed from the cart to one of two groups of prisoners. Zaammeytiid doesn’t miss that all of the Stormcloaks—Ulfric Stormcloak and Ralph included—go to the group on the left, nor do they miss that the left group is the one with a priestess of the Divines and a headsman with his chopping block. The group on the right is scarcer, smaller, and seems predominantly for those of elven heritage. Zaammeytiid catches sight of two golden-skinned elves in grand elven armor; _Thalmor. _It is a name that sears itself in their mind and brings their blood to a standstill and simmering fury.

“Kara.” They look at their Dremora friend—if such terms can even be applied in these circumstances—and watch the Imperial officer present scrunch his brows. He isn’t convinced she tells the truth. Zaammeytiid looks on with amusement as the officer asks increasingly specific questions, until Kara begins to tense. The officer finally directs her to the left group.

_Beyn, could you not make this scene easier? Let the joor free, she is worth more in zii than you will ever be, meyye! _Zaammeytiid’s form stiffens as the officer looks at them. The officer waves them closer and they slowly climb off the wagon. They note the officer’s eyes—surprisingly sympathetic, and a bit too soft for their taste—and his lingering stare over their body. The disgust must be obvious, for another Imperial soldier nearby snorts and the officer eying them clears his throat and looks down at the book in his hands.

“What is your name, prisoner?” The imperial officer speaks with respect.

It’s satisfying to detect, enough for the _dov _individual to give him a curt, “Zaammeytiid.”

They snort when they see Kara snap her head up from her group and stare.

_Beyn, dovahkiin. You are niid dovahkiin no longer, but I am still dov. _Zaammeytiid’s smile could kill, or at least they hope so. If they are forced to be a landwalker then they want their looks to poison water and their eyes to petrify people with a glance.

“That is… an interesting name, prisoner. Where are you, ahem, _from?_” the imperial officer clears his throat again. He looks flustered. They feel powerful knowing they can elicit the reaction, but they hold no true interest in him.

_You are not worthy of affection. _Zaammeytiid’s chest grows heavy. The _joor _feeling, the emotion of sorrow, is an irritating scratch. This time, there is no black-and-red jester to dance it away, or smile until they forget it, or begin a ramble the likes of which only _he _could pull off. There is no Cicero to help them with the feeling, and the realization of it makes Zaammeytiid all the more stricken with the _sorrow_, the _krosis_. They bite their lip and avert their eyes. _That universe is gone. That Cicero does not exist anymore. Beyn, Zaammeytiid. Do not occupy yourself with thoughts of joorre that no longer dance. He’s gone. _

“This one isn’t answering, captain!” The Imperial officer calls from the side. “What do we do with them?”

“Send them to the block!” A woman strides into view. She wears the same uniform with its leather lining and shining-steel guards. Her helmet obscures most of her face but she makes her displeasure known as she stares off to the side. When Zaammeytiid’s eyes follow, they see a group of Thalmor Justicars watching the prisoners. The captain, the woman in front of them, huffs and shouts loudly. “Unless the _elves _have a better idea?”

“Watch your words! We are not above imposing the will of the _Third Aldmeri Dominion_ on you!” One of the Thalmor raises his voice.

“To the block.” The captain snaps before storming away to the next cart of prisoners.

“You heard the captain. To the block, prisoner, nice and easy,” The imperial officer in front of Zaammeytiid clears his throat a third time. He nudges them toward the same group as Kara, as Ralph, and as Ulfric Stormcloak. As they walk across Helgen’s open grounds, they hear the thief of their cart begin protesting. They know how the conversation goes; though the thief shouts and squabbles out-of-order with the rest of the prisoners, the call for archers is still called when the thief attempts to break loose and run for the wilds.

The sound of the thief’s body when it hits the ground is not as appealing as they want it to be.

Zaammeytiid strides to Kara’s side. They give her a comfortable smirk and turn forward to stare at the headsman. Though the executioner never gives them more than a passing glance, they like to believe the look is enough to make the executioner uncomfortable. If not—They will have to try something else, later, should the headsman escape Helgen alive. They hum a tune of a jester’s dance as they wait for the scene to play out. It goes how they envision it would.

The Empire’s military governor, General Tullius, is a white-haired man with too many formalities for Zaammeytiid’s taste. General Tullius rides horseback to face Ulfric Stormcloak, climbing off the saddle just to make a grand statement of, “Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to _murder his king _and usurp his throne! You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace.”

Zaammeytiid has half a mind to _gol hah _the Imperial man and his shiny brass-colored armor. General Tullius carries too much satisfaction and contentment with the way he walks, talks, and climbs back unto his horse. The dramatic fashion of it all makes them want to gag. They don’t have time to retch, because no sooner than General Tullius moves out of the way and to the side does the captain of the Imperial guards shout at the prisoners to line up before the headsman’s block. Four Stormcloak soldiers wind up in front of Kara, with Kara the fifth, and them the sixth. Ralph lingers as the ninth two soldiers back behind them, and they glance at the end of the line to spot Ulfric Stormcloak as the prized final kill. It is morbid but of no interest. They keep their expression vague and look back to the front.

Usually, the roar of the World Eater, of the Divine first-born son of Akatosh, triggers at this point. Zaammeytiid knows their former deity well enough to seek out the sounds of wings flapping, of thu’ums bellowing, and of the winds changing in strength to herald the coming apocalyptic arrival. This time there is no strange sounds. No roar emerges. The birds overhead look happy as they soar gentle breezes and watch the scene below. Zaammeytiid’s brows furrow and they glance at Kara’s back but the latter has yet to show any indication she acknowledges the difference in the scene.

“Give them their last rites.” The captain orders a priestess in gold robes as the former backs away from the front of the group and halts at the side of Captain Tullius and his horse.

“In one life—There were two of them. But now one. But we’re in a line, not a crude group. This isn’t right—" Kara’s soft words do not slip Zaammeytiid’s ears. The Dremora woman shifts where she stands and Zaammeytiid can see gears turning in her head.

“As we commend your souls to Aetherius,” the priestess begins with a graceful tone, oblivious to the death about to unfold before her. “Blessings on the Eight Divines upon you! For _you _are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved—”

“For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with.” The first of the prisoners storms forward to the headsman and his chopping block. He’s a young man no older than twenty, a Nord, but the experience in his eyes shadows a person who has seen enough in five lifetimes.

“As you wish,” The priestess backs away with her head bowed.

Such a submissive gesture—It reminds Zaammeytiid of their own role, the champion of a Daedric Prince. They are wholly obedient to his command, waiting for _Lord Sheogorath_ to end their punishment and call them back to his side.

As the first Stormcloak is made to kneel at the chopping block, the twenty-year old calls out the the Imperials around him. “Come on, I haven’t got all morning! My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

The sound of the blade cutting through his neck is enough to bring a brief smile to Zaammeytiid’s face.

But then the scene doesn’t stop. It doesn’t play out the way it should. The smile becomes a taut, thin frown as Zaammeytiid watches another Stormcloak soldier be executed. The second soldier is a lady with a sharp tongue and loose lips, uttering curses to the very end, and for a moment after the headsman pulls back his blade, Zaammeytiid swears they hear another set of curses leave the dying woman’s mouth. Then a third Stormcloak soldier is executed. The third one wears full-body armor with a helm that obscures the soldier’s face up to the point an Imperial officer rips it from the soldier’s grasp. The third soldier is revealed to be an older lady, an Imperial from the capital, and the older woman grins heartily and shouts out Ulfric’s name before the blade falls on her neck. Several Stormcloak soldiers boo the Imperials from their place in line. A four Stormcloak soldier strides forward without fear; the man is covered in wounds not-yet healed, with blood still soaking parts of his armor. He’s a mess but clearly well-respected, for Zaammeytiid catches the whispers of several Stormcloak soldiers wishing his soul off to Sovngarde when the blade reaps his neck.

“Next, the dunmer from Morrowind!” The captain calls and points at Kara.

Zaammeytiid’s blood freezes. Their eyes widen and they stare as the former Dragonborn is escorted up to the headsman by the same imperial officer who took theirs and Kara’s names in a book.

“I’ll make sure your remains get sent back to Morrowind. Let’s go, prisoner,” The imperial officer sounds reluctant, but he does as is his duty and hands Kara to the headsman.

The headsman makes her kneel.

_But Alduin hasn’t interfered yet. Alduin isn’t… Why hasn’t he appeared? Where is the dovah? _Zaammeytiid’s stomach bubbles in uneasy flip-flops and strange, lingering nausea. The feeling of mortal _fear _is too much a nuisance to ignore, and too prevalent for them to put off addressing it. _Beyn, Alduin! These joorre will execute my dovahkiin! The meyye! Fools! _

But no roar comes. It isn’t coming, because the universe has cycled and Zaammeytiid _knows _it is a restart with their Daedra Lord’s twists and influence. Their Lord Sheogorath hinted such at the Throat of the World, in the discussion prior to the sky falling and existence sinking into an oblivion. They aren’t certain how—and perhaps a being of their inferior status will never understand the tricks of a god—but they _know _their Daedric master can exert power and influence over the expanse of Mundus. It is a terrifying feat the former hero is capable of; whatever Lord Sheogorath did in life prior to being crowned the Prince of Madness by Lord Jyggalag manifests in the Daedric Prince’s abilities to spurn threads of confusion, imbalance, and disorder. It is his _madness_, the opposite of Jyggalag’s order, logic, and deduction. If Lord Sheogorath refuses to allow the World-Eater to interfere in Kara’s execution, then—

_Why would he care, regardless? Kara is not the dovahkiin, niid dii tiid. Not this time. Kara is simply joor. Mortal. _Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow as they stare at the headsman. Their glare goes unnoticed; the headsman lifts the blade. _Lord Sheogorath will laugh in glee no matter how this scene plays out. This is dii punishment, my consequence for disobedience, and he only cares if I and the next consumer live. _

Perhaps the master of their soul doesn’t care about the former Dragonborn, but Zaammeytiid does.

_“Od-Ah-Viing!” _They open their mouth and screech out the words one-by-one, calling forth the name of the _dov Snow-Hunter-Wing. _

_“Halt!_ Hold your blade, headsman!”

The headsman’s great-axe lowers, but it stops as one of the Thalmor belts out an order to cease. Zaammeytiid feels the eyes in the crowd veer at them. Heat rises to their cheeks in another _joor _emotion, embarrassment, but they don’t back down. They bask in the power of their shout, they reflect nothing but confidence and control and _order _as they make eye contact with a Thalmor on horseback.

Like General Tullius, the Thalmor woman rides up to Zaammeytiid’s side but dismounts in order to speak. The high elf—_Altmer_, Zaammeytiid recalls the term—standing before Zaammeytiid is a woman with pale beige skin, a sharp jawline, and wavy blond hair. The Thalmor is dressed in prestigious dark robes accentuated with beautiful golden-embroidery. Something clicks in Kara’s mind, surely, for Zaammeytiid sees the woman stiffen where she kneels.

“You there—What is your name?” The Thalmor commands the words but Zaammeytiid refuses to acknowledge the authority. When they don’t answer, the high elf snatches Zaammeytiid by the collar of their ragged tunic and hisses. “Your _name,_ Dragonborn!”

“I am not Dragonborn, _joor._” The _dov _growls back a warning. Fragile, fleshy human or not—Their spirit is _dov _and they do not take orders.

“What is the meaning of this, First Ambassador?” General Tullius’ horse stops by the trio and line of prisoners.

“Dragonborn,” a Stormcloak several prisoners back whispers. “They’re—”

“A Dragonborn in the _Stormcloak Army?”_ One Imperial snorts.

“I knew it.” The voice of Ralph filters out from one of dozens that begins to state the incorrect information over-and-over. It irritates Zaammeytiid. They have half a mind to discard their self-control and burn them all to a crisp if it means decadent silence, but the Thalmor holding them still _continues_ to loom in their face and personal space.

It’s annoying.

“This one comes with us, General Tullius, they were not meant to be placed within this group!” The First Ambassador attempts to pull Zaammeytiid from the line, but the _dov _individual snorts and pulls back. They meet the Ambassador’s eyes in challenge. “You are _with me, _Dragonborn! Failure to comply justifies use of force and I _will _expend all force necessary.”

“On the contrary, First Ambassador Elenwen, this prisoner is a traitor to Skyrim and the Empire. They remain where they are. Continue with the execution!” General Tullius shouts back at the headsman just as a roar sounds across the entirety of Helgen.

In the sky is a shape not nearly so dark as it is spotted in white, and not nearly so large as it is imposing, but the _dov _called by Zaammeytiid’s shout finally emerges. Perhaps Odahviing is no Alduin, but the first-lieutenant of the World-Eater is no pushover. They are grateful so many Dragonborns of past cycles, repeats, and restarts are forced to summon Odahviing and trap him in Whiterun; if not for the repetitive nature of the event, Zaammeytiid cannot see how they would recall the information. They smile to themselves. Even as the headsman blade raises over Kara’s neck, Zaammeytiid spies the Odahviing circle, swoop low, and roar a monstrous shout of _“Fo!” _

The ice breath sends a _flurry _of snow and ice and frozen death across Imperials, Stormcloaks, and Thalmor alike. A line of frost lingers in the form of a condensed, glacial fog, and within it Zaammeytiid can see the forms of elves and humans frozen alive. A painful death, far less merciful than a headsman, but every bit satisfying for their innate bloodlust. Their self-control fades and their inner smile turns into an actual, wicked grin. General Tullius sees it first; they meet his eyes and offer him a simple, “I’d suggest you _run_.”

Odahviing’s body crashes into the ground, using dozens of Imperial soldiers and Thalmor to soften the crude landing. The dragon bellows and snarls as soldiers begin to circle and flank in, but Zaammeytiid knows of Odahviing’s strengths and capabilities. They have existed too long not to understand their former ally’s place as Alduin’s second-in-command. Just as three Thalmor begin to light up the _dov _with fireball spells, Odahviing spins on his feet with impossible speed and his tail _snaps _across the three wizards. Their bisected bodies drop with gurgles of blood following. The Thalmor’s fire spells sizzle and die out as First Ambassador Elenwen and General Tullius alike stare in a mixture of awe and horror.

_“Gol hah,_ Ambassador, _run for your life depends on it_.” Zaammeytiid growls. The high elf releases them immediately and Elenwen’s body shifts on its own, compelled by their thu’um to obey. Elenwen has no choice; Zaammeytiid is pleased to see the high elf depart as the line of soldiers around them and their fellow prisoners suddenly erupts into chaos. Odahviing spies Zaammeytiid’s form and bellows a thunderous cry in challenge.

_“What_ are you?” General Tullius’ voice holds little fear, and it is a feat they almost admire in the _joor_.

“Zaammeytiid. You would do well to run, _joor, _for things are about to become much worse,” The _dov _ducks and bolts to one side as Odahviing’s form lurches forward and his jaws snap for where their body was. Hot saliva is spat by the gnashing of the dragon’s teeth, and Zaammeytiid hisses at drops spattering their back calves as they run. They make for Kara while the latter struggles to stand, but they suddenly find a Stormcloak soldier—how hands got free they cannot tell—grab them and attempt to tear them from their _dovahkiin_.

“Dragonborn! You must get to safety!” The soldier urges as he pulls them.

They snap their head at him and hiss, _“Yol.” _

The flames are enough to not only melt the skin off the man’s face, but cause another soldier to scream in agony from the fire hitting her as collateral. Zaammeytiid smiles when embers touch upon their wrists; they ignore the _burn _of their thu’um against their skin and sigh happily when their bindings burn away. The freed _dov _individual runs to Kara’s side, the latter still at the chopping block and struggling to keep out of range of Odahviing’s thu’um. They speak while clumsily messing with the bindings and working them free, “If you die on the way to the keep, I will curse the ground I bury you in!”

_“What’s happening?_ What did you do?! This isn’t how anything happens_, Sahkriimar!”_ Kara’s criticisms are not appreciated, but Zaammeytiid can address her later. They take hold of Kara’s wrist and ignore her hiss of pain. The _dov _individual pulls Kara by force to a stone watchtower, and a soldier inside shuts the door behind them.

_“Dragonborn,”_ It’s Ralph who greets them, his back pressing the door shut and ensuring neither they nor him can get in or out. The Stormcloak soldier looks out of breath. His gaze holds respect and awe and both are wonderful things for Zaammeytiid to bask in, if not for an enraged _Odahviing _smashing and freezing Helgen alive outside. “It was you—In the wagon! Jarl Ulfric! The legends are true—Talos praise us, the Dragonborn is here!”

“You are not who I expected for the Dragonborn,” the now un-gagged Jarl of Windhelm speaks with a careful and cautious tone. Ulfric Stormcloak is an older man with the experience of decades of battles. “I would have preferred you shout before four of my soldiers died at the hands of the Empire—But you are forgiven, for others live on. I hope you do not forget the cruelty you witnessed here, Dragonborn. The elves and the Empire—”

“I am not the Dragonborn, _mey_, you are all _pahlok meyye _to believe so.” Zaammeytiid’s self-control wanes for a second before their composure returns. They turn to Kara and frown. “Alduin didn’t come.”

“He did not.” The former Dragonborn swallows the words. Kara’s face looks weary and tired. “We need to get to the keep—”

“Let’s go, up the tower!” Ralof attempts to grab Zaammeytiid’s hand but the _dov _individual is nimble. Zaammeytiid makes up the stairs regardless but with Kara on their heels and the Stormcloaks following both individuals.

Zaammeytiid attempts to climb the tower to the top, but Kara _rips _them backward and holds them behind her as Odahviing smashes open the tower’s side and breathes in a gale of frost. _“Fo krah diin! Zaam mey tiid! Dov ru faasmaar!” _

The tower is left with a cluster of thick ice crystals. Arrows bounce off the stone watchtower’s exterior and Odahviing turns back and leaps at the attackers with a gallivant roar. Zaammeytiid frowns and glances at Kara, but the woman is already peering through the hole in the tower and looking for something. “—There! The inn! We jump unto its roof while he’s distracted! Zaammeytiid, can you—”

_“Mal quh div,_” the _dov _shouts. They aren’t sure what to expect; up until the current cycle they have never had a mortal form of _their own _to try out shouts in. They are delighted when ethereal-white scales snap into existence and cover their body head-to-toe. The faintly-translucent ‘armor’ is a beauty to behold, and if any of the _joorre _try to say otherwise Zaammeytiid knows they will fillet the mortal where they stand. They hum in pleasure when the tips of the ethereal hide meld with a gleaming gold, brighter than ever under Skyrim’s sunlight.

“Dragon Aspect.” Kara smiles. “Clever—_Ack!” _

Zaammeytiid scoops up their former Dragonborn without pause. They look back at Ralof, Ulfric, and a number of other Stormcloak soldiers further in the keep. Then—The _dov _leaps out and plummets to the ground. They let their body absorb most of the impact, but part of the shock clearly effects Kara. Zaammeytiid doesn’t bother to set the woman down until they’ve ducked into the shadow of a house that backs into an outer wall.

“Your shouts,” the former Dragonborn hisses in pain. At what injury, Zaammeytiid is uncertain, and they acknowledge they are utterly _useless _in addressing pain given _dovah _are made for destruction, not surgery. “When you use them—So many—Before the word walls—”

“Ah, the word walls, the walls made by my _kin_, inscribed in the tongue of my _kin, _the walls that speak words _I know_. _Beyn, _Kara, you disappoint me.” Zaammeytiid drops the woman without pause and peers around the corner. A crash sounds four houses down and they watch Odahviing rip through one home’s walls with ease. Zaammeytiid dips back behind the cover of the two’s house. “This world is marred by the touch of Lord Sheogorath, _ed’Ata._ My actions are meaningless. Use of shouts will not trigger greater chaos than Lord Sheogorath already intends.”

“The Daedric Prince of Madness.” The woman breathes the words and pulls herself to her feet. Her obsidian-black skin is a sore target that sticks out among _everything _under Skyrim’s sun. Kara doesn’t seem to notice. “I think he made Paarthurnax push me off a mountain. I—I fell. I actually fell, didn’t I? Paarthurnax killed me.”

“Your body left a grievous stain on the mountain face. Beautiful.” Zaammeytiid raises both brows at the woman’s scowl. _“Beyn, _do not give me that face, _joor_. Things have changed. The universe has reset by Lord Sheogorath’s hands. There is much to discuss but first you must live past the events of Helgen.”

“Live past—Oh. Oh, Gods, Artemis, I forgot,” Kara cradles her head in her hands and hisses softly. “I’m not the consumer, am I? Not anymore?”

“Your body in that world is dead. As is your form in the past cycle. We will talk more later, there is a _dov _to avoid.” Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow. “I will distract the _dov_, Thalmor, Imperials, and any unnecessarily-abhorrent Stormcloaks with my thu’um. You must get to the keep. I will follow after.”

“They really believe you’re the Dragonborn,” the former Dragonborn cracks a weak smile and straightens upright. “They do.”

“I am not_ dovahkiin, _I am_ dov!”_

“But it’s funny. I wonder who is the Dragonborn.” Kara offers a wider smile. “Who else walks this world, Sahkriimar? Can anyone but consumers take the place of Dragonborn? It must be someone here, surely.”

“Quiet,” Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow. They utter a soft, “_Laas.” _

Red aura of another's life dominates their vision; the _dov _grabs Kara’s wrist and _bolts,_ pulling her behind them as they run from the house in time to avoid Odahviing’s breathe of _fo _when it shoots and freezes the building solid. They feel Odahviing’s hatred stare daggers in their back, but they ignore him and continue to run. Perhaps the keep is unnecessary; they know not but they run, run, _run _regardless. Around houses, past screaming civilians mourning the sudden death and horror left in a dragon’s wake, and beyond any soldiers of either side as the latter are forced to either run for their lives or take up a losing battle with Snow-Hunter-Wing.

They make it to Helgen’s northern gate, where the guards have abandoned their posts to flee for the wildlands. Zaammeytiid hears Odahviing farther out, back in Helgen and _furiously _looking for them, but the _dov _individual ignores the dragon’s malice and marches out of the doomed town with Kara on their heels. It’s not the way most Helgen scenes play out with Dragonborns, but Zaammeytiid is no Dragonborn and they are certainly not inclined to care for whether or not it is fire or ice that leaves Helgen in ruin. _Dov _and former _dovahkiin _make it an hour into the wilderness, heading clumsily north, before the sound of horses galloping emerge. Though Zaammeytiid repeats the use of Aura Whisper, it is not fast enough to stop them from being flanked and surrounded as Zaammeytiid watches dots of red slowly tighten a circle formation around them.

“Thalmor.” Kara’s voice is fear; the thirty-one-year-old woman cannot say the name of the elven group without all color draining from her face. Even as a Dremora, she exhibits _joor _tendencies.

_Perhaps I should not call her joor anymore. _Zaammeytiid considers as white horses march out of the trees and thickets. A group of ten Thalmor, heavily armored and featuring the First Ambassador, flank the duo on all sides. Zaammeytiid exhales in annoyance and forces the bloodlust in their body to calm. It doesn’t calm entirely, but the waves of longing to _destroy _slowly cease in impact until they are but shallow ripples in the pond of their soul.

“Dragonborn!” First Ambassador Elenwen greets Zaammeytiid with a hiss. “By order of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, the power vested in me as per the terms written in the White-Rose Gold Concordat, you are hereby placed under _my _custody. If you fight, my Justicars are authorized to subdue you by any means necessary.”

“Kara,” the not-Dragonborn growls. “The _pahlok _of these _joorre _annoy me.”

“I want them all to die.” The words of their former Dragonborn makes Zaammeytiid’s chest ache.

_It doesn’t matter if it was in another life. You took us prisoner. A dov does not forget, joorre! Meyye! Beyn, for all of you! _Zaammeytiid’s self-control wanes. The white scales adorning their body linger but fade in opacity, a signal the shout’s power is nearing its end. The _dov_—not Dragonborn, never!—shoves Kara behind them and stares First Ambassador Elenwen down. _Never again will you lay a finger on us, joorre! _

“The bow.” Is all Zaammeytiid utters before the individual breaks into a run for one of the Thalmor. Elenwen shouts out an order but the spells only just begin before Zaammeytiid screeches the shout of, _“Zun haal!” _

It’s a weaker shout, but one they’ve come to appreciate since being shoved weaponless into a new cycle of the universe. The shout to Disarm an opponent echoes out in a wave of shuddering sound. The thu’um ensnares a horse and its rider; the elf howls in surprise and pain as his weapons tear off his body and flies far away. It’s the signal Kara waits for, and the sound of her footsteps moving is music to Zaammeytiid’s ears. They may not be a conjoined soul any longer, and Kara may not be the fabled _dovahkiin _to their _dov _spirit, but they know she is on a similar wavelength. When the elf is targeted by Zaammeytiid’s shout, the bow and quiver on his waist and back go _flying _to the ground. Zaammeytiid hears the sizzle and crackling of spark spells and flames spells around them, but they ignore it and reach the horse even as the Thalmor turn their attention to launching an onslaught of furious firepower.

Their Dragon Aspect armor fades, but it’s taken enough of the hits. They dive behind one Thalmor and his horse and the mare bucks in fear. Even the animal knows not to provoke a _dov _on a hunt, and the elf is thrown off the horse’s back before Zaammeytiid sinks hands and nails into her. The _dov _ignores the stings of pain of spells and arrows alike; they can tell some elven arrows carry poison but they pull their target to their front and use the elf as a body shield against her own ally’s magic and weapons.

One elf drops dead at their horse. They grin past the tingling in their—pathetic, irritating—mortal fingers. A second elf falls from a steed and the steed whines in fear and turns tail before it gallops off. Zaammeytiid meets Kara’s eye and offers a smile of delight at the former Dragonborn’s aim.

A fireball blasts them in the back and they howl in pain. The pain of _joor _bodies is another thing to complain about, later, but they shout, _“Feim!” _in haste and let their body become an ethereal wisp of itself. Their form involuntarily shudders at the familiar call of the _Void _as their thu’um channels the Void’s power and gives them a moment of respite from the Thalmor’s attacks. A third elf drops dead, but it is not their former Dragonborn’s kill. Their ethereal—frustratingly human—body catches sight of blue uniforms as a hail of arrows erupts. Zaammeytiid seizes the opportunity; with arrival of armed Stormcloaks, they know the Thalmor have no choice but to back off or fight the soldiers and not-Dragonborn at the same time. Kara catches on to what Zaammeytiid does and she books it from the scene, following the not-Dragonborn’s steps as the two _sprint_ through the wilderness of Skyrim with the vague hope of making it north, east, west, _somewhere _far from Helgen. Neither say anything until they are so out of breath it hurts to think about breathing.

Even then, Zaammeytiid only offers a short, “Riverwood?”

They pause at Kara’s exhausted groan. “No—Saw how soldiers react—Shouts—Ralof will go to Riverwood—”

“Where, then?” Zaammeytiid stops at a tree and leans against it for support. They pant heavily. “Thalmor—”

“Looking for us, yeah,” the Dremora babbles weakly. She sounds parched, but neither have water. “Or you, rather. You’re the—Supposed Dragonborn.”

“Not—”

“Not the Dragonborn, yeah, yeah, I know, Sahkriimar.” The former Dragonborn shakes her head. “But that’s—It’s what they _think_. We need to go—Somewhere—Unknown. Where Thalmor won’t think to look for us. Have to get gear. Level up. Train. Make money? Riften?”

“Riften. That’s…” It’s set in their mind as soon as Kara says it, because the not-Dragonborn is certain the cesspool of Riften is the furthest place the Thalmor would _want _to go looking. “Before we head for—To Riften. Kara. You’re a—”

“I know,” the woman answers without hesitation, even in her weariness. Her eyes dim and she looks to the side, out across the wild lands, and Zaammeytiid cannot begin to imagine the conflicted emotions running through Kara’s head as she adds. “I’m a _Dremora._ Sanguine did this to me.”

“I think so.” Zaammeytiid’s eyes twitch. 

“Who else would have?” It’s a sad, bitter, bemused laugh. It’s a laugh of many things, truly, and it looks every bit as taxing on Kara as running for hours through Skyrim’s wild lands does. “I can’t summon him anymore. He’ll be too weakened. And I—I don’t know the spell. I can’t conjure a Dremora. Too weak. I’m so weak.”

“We’ll get you strong then. Strong enough to summon Dremora. Strong enough to know how to cast weak _joor _spells.” The not-Dragonborn straightens upright and nods. They don’t smile, but they don’t tell a lie either, as they go on to say, “You’ll see him again, _dovahkiin_. I know it.”

“I’m not the Dragonborn anymore,” Kara interjects but stops when Zaammeytiid shakes their head at the words.

“Maybe not, _beyn_,” the _dov _grumbles and looks to the side. “But you were my _dovahkiin _before. A _dov _does not forget easily.”

Unless it involves Nords with strange _joorre _names like _Ralph,_ but Kara does not need to know that and Zaammeytiid isn’t inclined to share. The latter relaxes at the sight of Kara’s brief, waning smile. It’s almost enough to make _Zaammeytiid _smile, but the champion of Lord Sheogorath controls their emotions and keeps the feelings under lock and key. They simply stretch, suck in a deep breath, and glance at their former Dragonborn. “To Riften, then, _niid dovahkiin. _Talk on the way, there is a mountain to climb._” _

“Can’t you summon a _dov _and bend its will to get there?”

“Talk on the way, there is a _strunmah_ to hike over.” Zaammeytiid repeats the words, already wandering in one direction. They feel satisfied when Kara decides to follow. Perhaps it is not the situation they anticipated upon first waking up in the cart with Kara, but they do not feel _krosis _as the duo begins to make their way east.

Sorrow is for _joorre _and they are strictly _dov_.


	2. gol hah dov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dov and former dovahkiin have a lot to talk about on the way to riften, but they are not the only ones in the wildlands of southern skyrim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this entire story will consistently alternate between sahkriimar/zaammeytiid's perspective and kara's perspective  
just a heads up!

Things are not the same and it hurts. She is no legendary hero of fable, desired and admired and loved by half of Skyrim, nor is she the capable, lethal Listener to the Night Mother. She doubts the Night Mother would even acknowledge her now, for she is no _dovahkiin_. She is simply _Kara, _technically Kara the III, but even then the past lives she played through with are irrelevant. Those were of a time when Skyrim was a video game, or Skyrim was the world of a life she finally got to have, but all involved her being _dovahkiin _and not being _dovahkiin _warps and changes everything. Truly, it is the touch of Sheogorath, the embodiment of his sphere of madness.

If she were on _Earth, _on the tiny speck of home among an expanding universe doomed for an eventual heat death, she might have words to say about _madness. _The country she once called home is a turbulent place where individuals with mental ailments and illnesses are demonized and made to be monsters. Such was the reason she once punched the leader of the Dark Brotherhood in the face; even as Kara the III she _still_ feels the desire to protect the jester her Dremora-self has yet to meet. If she takes a guess why, she knows it is the same reason she yearns to seek out and hold a certain Saxhleel, Argonian, _Shadowscale, _just as it is the same reason she yearns for a beautiful dunmer’s _coy_ smiles and encouraging words, or the reason she finds her chest aching to indulge in the touch of a beautiful Daedric Prince, _the _Lord of Debauchery… She cannot satisfy the longings. All those individuals are beyond her point of contact, her grasp, and she can’t afford to linger on the loss of what she had when her and Sahkriimar have a mountain to get over.

Kara keeps her thoughts focused on the task at hand: _Riften. _It isn’t as bloody as Markarth, but she knows it is corrupt all the same. She hopes to run into Brynjolf of the Thieves Guild there; though she always prefers the Dark Brotherhood’s storyline, she has a soft spot for the Nocturnal-cursed clan. Serving as a member of the Thieves Guild will offer her and Sahkriimar protection for a time and provide a place to rest, stock supplies, and hide while the two train and hone their skills.

_Not that Sahkriimar requires much help in that aspect. _The thought is unusually bitter, but she can’t hold it back. She helps the _dov _person reach a handhold on a smaller cliff, and when Sahkriimar gets to the top the latter kneels and holds out a hand for her to take. She accepts it.

They’ve been running around and surviving the wild lands of Skyrim for three days now.

“We’ll freeze to death in the mountain pass if we don’t find proper equipment. Warmth. My fire breath will not keep you warm, _joor_.” The not-Dragonborn crosses their arms and stares as Kara stands and brushes herself off.

It’s still weird to see Sahkriimar separate from them. They are not the picture of _intimidation_ Kara imagines they should be when considering Sahkriimar is an ancient dragon spirit forced into the flesh of a mortal. They’re almost _pretty, _if not for the increasingly annoying remarks the _dov _person states. No, they take it back. Sahkriimar is _lovely_ and strange to stare at. The individual’s face is a myriad of smooth skin, soft freckles, and rounded ears. Their hair is perhaps the most accurate in terms of reflecting the individual’s true draconic self; Sahkriimar’s hair gleams gold even without light, it attracts the eye immediately and Kara herself finds it hard not to ogle the vivid color and volume. What irritates—or attracts her—most is the individual’s eyes; they are a shining, piercing _silver_ and scarcely mask the magnitude of Sahkriimar’s churning, violent _dov _spirit. Other than being _short,_ everything about the _dov_’s mortal form seems perfect.

In a very, very, _very _petty way, Kara finds herself jealous.

_Some have all the luck. _Kara grits her teeth when Sahkriimar begins another tangent about how they cannot keep Kara alive solely through blasting thu’ums and burning down forests. The former Dragonborn keeps her comments to herself and trudges forward.

It’s good she has an elven-quality bow and quiver of glass arrows, but between that, weak spells, and Sahkriimar’s shouts, the two barely have anything to go off of. They stay fed with game and skin pelts to help keep warm, but on the fourth day of travel the two hit a point neither can go further.

“I’m going to find the nearest _ah_ and _nir viik grah _them. Take their gear. Satisfactory for you, _joor?_” Sahkriimar looks at her at one point with the aggravating silver eyes, like pools of molten metal.

“Whoever you kill, please make it quick. Though. If we were children of darkness you would be doing them a service, technically, so...” Is all Kara can muster in response.

She doesn’t want to admit she can’t shout, no does she have any desire to tell Sahkriimar she no longer understands a single word of _dovah _tongue the latter speaks. Kara begrudgingly puts on bloodied fur armor when Sahkriimar returns two hours later. It’s warmer than prisoner rags and is enough for the two to continue their trek through the mountains. On the seventh night, when they are huddled around a small fire made by Sahkriimar’s blast of _yol_, the woman finally decides to breach a topic she knows both are dancing around.

“What happened on the Throat of the World? With Sheogorath, Paarthurnax. With… You. What happened after I fell off the mountain?” Kara breaks the silence as she thrusts her palms to the flames and lets her skin soak in the heat coming off them. It’s bitterly cold, perhaps as bitter as she feels, but she’s too entrenched in wanting to _know _her past demise and what came after to not press the topic with Sahkriimar.

The _dov _person stiffens. Their eyes dim at the memories. Kara doesn’t know what the expression means but she hopes it is good. When Sahkriimar opens their mouth, Kara regrets asking anything, “You died. Killed by impact. How ironic for a _dovahkiin _to fall to death when _dovahkiin _are meant to soar.”

“I know I died, Sahkriimar. I am asking you what happened _next_. I was too busy being _dead _to notice, what with _dying _and all,” Kara grimaces and draws her knees to her chest. She wraps her arms around herself and grunts. “Better question: where in Oblivion where you when I was being punted off the top of mountains? You are a terrible _dov _spirit to have as _dovahkiin._”

“My master told me to cease interfering.” The words come out in an orderly fashion, as if recited from a book or tome.

“Your _master—”_

“Lord Sheogorath.” Sahkriimar’s brows furrow. Lovely, lovely golden brows, as lovely as every other increasingly obnoxious perfection on their _joor _form.

Her eyes lock on to Sahkriimar. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and I need you to answer them because this is driving me up a _wall_.”

“How can you be driven up a wall—”

“It’s a figure of speech! A figure of speech I highly doubt you haven’t used! For carts, or wagons, or, or _automobiles_! Just because you can’t remember using it before doesn’t mean you haven’t… Ahem, used it,” Kara huffs. The thirty-one-year-old woman adjusts to sit cross-legged facing Sahkriimar. The fire pit’s blazes dances between them. “Please, Sahkriimar, work with me here. I’m not used to being _this _yet,” the woman gestures to her own Dremora skin, as obsidian-black as the Void’s pitch itself. “I’m not used to still being… alive.”

“Don’t justify your questions, _mey, _ask them. My _drem _is short even with the blessings of my pact.” Sahkriimar retorts.

“Fine, fine,” and Kara waves a hand to brush off the not-Dragonborn’s comments. “Since you won’t speak of the Throat of the World—Why are you calling yourself _Zaammeytiid_ again? You are Sahkriimar—"

“The universe reset. It is a new cycle.” Sahkriimar cuts off her sentence and stares blankly. “In this cycle, I am no child of the Night Mother. I cannot be Sahkriimar, for it is the name given to me by the unholy matron.”

“I refuse to believe the past cycle is wiped wholly clean. Surely—” Kara begins but Sahkriimar’s—Zaammeytiid’s?—stare makes her shut up.

Sahkriimar bows their head and utters a solemn, “Lucien Lachance.”

Nothing happens. It is the result Kara hates to see but Sahkriimar anticipates, for the latter nods and returns their gaze to the fire.

“If the Night Mother knew my spirit, knew and blessed me to be _Sahkriimar, _Phantom-Kill-Allegiance, I would be worthy enough to call the _zii _known as Lucien Lachance from the Void and summon him to aid us in _grah, _in battle. But I am not… a child of darkness. Not anymore, Kara,” if Sahkriimar is sad, their tone masks it very well. “I am not half of a Listener. I am a _dov _in _joor slen, _mortal flesh, who exists in this world as punishment for attempting to flee the Daedra Lord who claims ownership of my _zii, _my soul. Do not call me _Sahkriimar_ again; I am not worthy the name.”

Kara stiffens. “You expect me to call you _Zaammeytiid? _After all the trouble we went through together—”

“Yes.”

“I refuse. I may not remember what _Zaammeytiid _translates to, but I know it was a heinous and cruel thing. You are not… That. I will not address you as something you are not,” The woman looks to the side, out where the darkness is strongest and shadows flicker around the trees and rocky outcroppings. The darkness no longer seems inviting, friendly, or like home. Kara wonders if Sahkriimar feels the same.

“If you insist.” Sahkriimar falls quiet.

A lot has changed since the last cycle of the universe. Kara hates every bit of it. She despises the differences in strength between the two, the growing animosity as result of her own petty jealousy over something so shallow like _looks_, and the now-alien nature of the _dovah _tongue when just a lifetime ago she spoke it, cursed in it, and breathed its power as a thu’um. She is not the Dragonborn any longer and she wants to cry but instead of tears comes weariness. She sighs. “Sahkriimar?”

The _dov _person gives her a sideways glance but nods in acknowledgement.

“I remember bits and pieces of what happened before I died. Before Paarthurnax ordered me to step off the Throat of the World and _fall_,” Kara returns to the topic a second time with renewed vigor, a deep desire burning within her to know the truth. “Sheogorath said things I couldn’t make sense of—”

“My lord is the Prince of Madness. A _joor _cannot hope to understand the crisis of identifies and flux of wisdom he emits.” Sahkriimar’s words make as much sense as anything else in the universe doesn’t at that moment.

Kara can’t hold back her hiss. “Why do you keep saying that, Sahkriimar?? _My Lord _this! _Lord Sheogorath _that! You act like he really,” she pauses at Sahkriimar’s blank stare, so true and winding and pointless to the obvious. “By Mara. You actually serve Sheogorath. You’re his—”

“Champion, yes.”

“Fuck, why didn’t you tell me this before? Why couldn’t you have mentioned this back when I had my Dark Brotherhood behind me—Or I could actually _shout_—Or—”

“You can’t shout?” Sahkriimar snaps their head and eyes Kara with a wariness she doesn’t enjoy. “_Beyn, _that makes sense, but it is not good.”

“Answer the questions! Sahkriimar! Why didn’t you tell me or Sanguine or Cicero or _someone _you serve the Daedric Prince of Madness?! That would have,” Kara stands and growls and curses under breath. She throws her hands into the air. “—It would have changed the course of actions! I might not have gone to the Throat of the World! We could have gone to Sheogorath’s plane of Oblivion, or—Or sent Sanguine there—Or _something _that didn’t turn out like this!”

Sahkriimar blinks slowly. They avert their gaze. _“Mey, _Kara, you think I hid it from you? I didn’t remember. I never remember unless Alduin dies to the _dovahkiin_, or the _dovahkiin _dies to the world. My Lord would not let me remember in the last cycle! It was not my purpose.”

“Then,” and Kara’s voice becomes a furious, seething venom. “What _was _your purpose, Sahkriimar? Why did you up and start becoming so complex and separate and _individual? _You weren’t like that at first—"

“Your actions as _dovahkiin _prompted Lord Sheogorath to change his plans. What plans, I do not know. But you were not the consumer he anticipated, or else he would not have had reason to expand my free will and let me exist beyond the _zaam mey tiid._” Sahkriimar shakes their head. They raise their palms to the dying fire between the two. The warmth seems comforting to them, but to Kara it is another spit in the face that _they _are some all-powerful, fabled hero and _she _is just dirt under their feet in afterthought.

But at least Sahkriimar talks, instead of dancing a duet with her around the subject. She sits down and stares coldly at her former _dov_. “Explain it to me. How my actions altered your _masters _plans.”

“You sought out the Daedric Prince of Indulgence. Most _joorre _do, that is natural, it is the reason why it often ends in quests for staffs and giant toes,” the _dov _person, the _Champion of Sheogorath, _talks far too calmly for Kara’s surging thoughts. Sahkriimar closes their eyes and exhales. “Sanguine is a _Daedra Lord _easily satiated. Amused. But you went ‘off-script,’ as my Lord would say. You played Sanguine at his own game, lost, but did it again. Again. Again. You kept seeking him out.”

A faint blush crawls unto the woman’s face. Kara swallows and shoves the feelings back, but she affirms. “I did. He’s my favorite of the Daedric Princes. One of the less dickish ones.”

“Dickish.” Sahkriimar smiles briefly before the expression turns back to a neutral, thin frown. “You caught his attention, _joor_. The attention of an _et’Ada _is a dangerous thing. Only _meyye _willingly seek it out. But you did. Again, again, again. You must have been very interesting to Sanguine. You recall your paths intersecting?”

“Too much, at times. Too much to be convenient.” The former Dragonborn sighs and holds her head in her hands. “Why would Sanguine be a problem? Both are Daedra, yes? Daedric Princes are powerful, but I don’t see why he and Sheogorath would feud—”

_“Niid, _not feuding. Sanguine protected you, kept other _et’Ada _from interfering in your travels. He became a buffer for Hircine and Hermaeus Mora. Unfortunately, his actions entailed preventing my Lord from influencing you.”

Kara stiffens. “I recall him saying something like that. I saw the scars on his body more than once. But it—It doesn’t tell me why Sheogorath wanted to influence me. Why Sanguine’s presence was _such _a problem, Sahkriimar.”

“You were never the consumer he wanted. His actions, my involvement, it is confusing to me, but I know Lord Sheogorath seeks a consumer of particular type. He must. Why else repeat this cycle of madness?” Sahkriimar shivers. It appears even the night air’s cold can affect them, but Kara cannot do a thing to ease the temperature drops.

She thinks the conversation has shut, and perhaps it should have, but Kara’s mind continues to think. She recalls the beautiful red auroras at the summit of the Throat of the World, the home of the Time-Wound, and of the crisp, clean snow _everywhere_. She recalls Paarthurnax’s and her own conversation up to the point she chose to use a shout to bend his will and make him _kneel. _Such arrogance, she knows, is one thing she must look out for in the current cycle of the universe. But the memory is as memories are and she cannot undo it; she opts to scrap her brain for any other remnants of information that Sheogorath mentioned before her death.

“Sahkriimar,” the woman snaps upright and stares at the quiet _dov _person. “Sahkriimar—He mentioned the Ratway. The Ratway in Riften. He said I should have died there, that everything would have been better if I just _died _there. Why? What about that place made him react like that?”

“Lord Sheogorath intended you to die regardless. He does for all consumers, for none are what he wants.” Sahkriimar’s voice has, Kara notices, gradually become more and more docile and orderly as conversation revolving Sheogorath goes on. It’s a frightening change for someone she _knows _is capable of burning down villages and razing army camps to the ground. Sahkriimar exhales and shrugs. “Look how you are now, _niid dovahkiin. _You are… a Dremora. A Daedra. _Et’Ada. _You are… Something of Oblivion, not meant for this world. A Prince made you into that. But before you were that—You had the patches of Oblivion on your _slen_, your flesh. You remember?”

“I do.” Kara bites her lip. “When Sanguine healed me—”

“To perform an action of that nature requires a Daedra to siphon a portion of their power and bestow it upon the victim. It forms a _connection _between Daedra and non-Daedra, an intimacy not provided otherwise. Sanguine healing you meant my Lord could not hope to ever mar your mind with his madness. You became untouchable to him. I imagine that was the catalyst for the end of Lord Sheogorath’s resolve. The events of the world already sped up in his madness, but _you _were targeted by how many creatures? Hunted by bandits, sought by dragons, imprisoned by Thalmor?” Sahkriimar says the name of the elven group easily, but it stings Kara all the same. Sahkriimar continues after a moment. “Sanguine’s actions in the Ratway prevented your death, which prevented the universe from cycling, which prompted my Lord to expand _my will_ and take shape.”

Kara’s eyes flash with the storm of emotions brewing in her chest. She holds her tongue, but Sahkriimar notices the expression regardless.

“You are right to feel rage.” Sahkriimar states with an impassiveness Kara _despises. _“It is a complicated web, much like Mephala’s plane of Oblivion. After your death, Sanguine said he regretted going there first. Said Mephala even suggested he visit my Lord’s Shivering Isles.”

“Why the _fuck _did you choose to serve a Prince of Madness, Sahkriimar?!” And it bursts, because Kara is not a Dragonborn and she does not have the control she wishes for. Her anger becomes fists and she lurches over the now-embers of the two’s former fire and tackles the _dov _person to the ground. The two go rolling over each other into dirt and twigs and she doesn’t _care _because she _knows _Sahkriimar deserves every second of it. Kara’s wails and screeches and screams are as effective as her fists; she manages three punches before the _dov _person catches her gaze.

_“Gol hah dov,” _their former _dov _whispers and Kara is forced to climb off of Sahkriimar by the latter’s thu’um. “Sit there and do not touch me again.”

It’s a warning. Dangerous, violent, not nearly as complacent as the _dov _individual’s words up to that point.

“I hate you.” Kara seethes when the thu’um returns control of her will. She stares at the Champion of Sheogorath with vicious red-brown eyes. “I hope Sheogorath tears your soul limb-from-limb. How you could ever _want _to serve the Daedric Prince of Madness is low, even for a creature disgusting as yourself, Zaammeytiid!”

“It wasn’t by choice.” Is all the _dov _offers as they return to their previous spot and lay on the ground. Their eyes drift shut in spite of the fact they know—and Kara is wholly aware—a _dov _in the flesh of man does not require the same amount of sleep as a true human. “Back then—I served the Lord of Order and Deduction. The Prince of Logic. Lord Jyggalag.”

“You chose to serve a Daedra!”

“At least I didn’t _fuck_ one.” Sahkriimar’s voice leeches out with notes of bitterness, a vulnerability reflecting cracks in their orderly carapace of composure.

“As if who goes in and out of _my _bedchamber is of any relevance, you _insufferable brat!”_ the former Dragonborn growls. “I should turn you over to the Thalmor!”

She regrets the words instantly. They are cruel and callous sounds she can’t take back as she watches Sahkriimar rise, turn, and stare at her where she sits. The _dov _individual’s face is drained of color, far from its perfect stature, but a gut-wrenching emotion of _fear _momentarily wrenches itself over the _dov _persons face. Sahkriimar strides up to Kara, kneels next to her, and looks at her with a sorrow that does not befit a _dov_.

“If that is your wish, _niid dovahkiin. _They will leave you alone.” Sahkriimar straightens upright. “I will turn myself to them if it _pleases you _so much. This cycle is _my_ punishment. It is not yours. You do not have to be collateral.”

“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said that—” Kara begins, but the _dov_ who is likely _dovahkiin _gives a mournful gaze. “Sahkriimar—”

_“Gol hah dov. _Stay there and wait, _joor, _Kara, I do not desire _grah _to result from our tempers. We aren’t two halves of a whole anymore. If you press—I will bite back.” Sahkriimar states as Kara’s body remains locked in place, unable to move or retort or do more than breath and watch. The probable-_dovahkiin _avoids looking back at Kara as they blow a quick _yol _to rekindle the flames of their dead fire, shovel in wood to sustain it, and walk away. It’s an aggravatingly long time before the shout wears off; Kara finds herself mentally counting seconds and minutes in a maddening pandemonium until control over her will returns and she can _run. _

She has no idea what direction Sahkriimar took to, for the darkness of the night covers most of the wild lands, but Kara isn’t inclined to wait and listen. Her fur armor clings to her body and offers meager protection from the cold as she watches snow start to fall.

_You foolish dov! You foolish, foolish dovahkiin in denial! Even I can think the words! Even if I cannot speak them! You are a foolish dragon! This is ludicrous! You don’t even know how to traverse this region safely! _She screams in her head.

Skyrim’s southern mountain pass is an expanse of rising cliffs and highland thickets. It is an effective barrier forcing many travelers to head north and wrap around the Throat of the World’s base. Attempting to traverse it without knowledge of the region is a death sentence Kara knows far too well about from the endless playthroughs she’s conducted of what was once a video game. With Sahkriimar—never Zaammeytiid, she refuses to use the name—having a head start on her, the former Dragonborn pauses and rakes her brain for an idea of where to cut the possible-_dovahkiin _off. The _dov _individual is on foot but Kara knows the former’s shouts can call a _dov _or force animals and men to bow at their feet. She opts for the route she knows leads to Ivanstead, a tiny village most pilgrims stay at before attempting the seven-thousand-step hike to High Hrothergar. If Sahkriimar tries to find civilization—or Thalmor, damn foolish _dov _likes to suffer to make a point—then Kara guesses the _dov _individual will head there.

She presses on in the darkness for two hours before she’s forced to call it quits by increasing snowfall. She seeks out a cave, builds a ragged shelter, and uses her minor magicka pools to cast a _flames _spell. The tinder she has set aside for a fire burns brightly and with ample nurturing and frequent re-applications of her flames spell, Kara succeeds in a meager campfire. She spends most of the night tossing and turning. Her body aches from non-stop shivers. No dreams come, and she isn’t sure if she should be thankful or full of resentment for that fact. When dawn breaks across the horizon and the snow has lightened in its flurries, Kara rises and continues forward.

She hopes against hope Sahkriimar didn’t die to frostbite throughout the night. She can’t recall wiki pages of information off the top of her head, but she knows frostbite can set in quickly and lead to loss of exterior digits first. _It’s painful to deal with. Even if you survive—It leaves its marks. And that doesn’t take into account hypothermia, or pneumonia… By Hades! Sanguine was right when he told me you have tendencies to go mucking about in the wilderness, dragon! _

After a grueling five-hour hike through thick snow and fallen foliage, Kara stops at the peak of one slope and looks off the edge. She breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of a road sign sticking out among a sheet of white and snowberry shrubs. The red berries provide a contrast she doesn’t enjoy lingering on; the snowberry plants, at a distance, look like blood spray or gory remains of an unfortunate elk or rabbit.

_I hope Sahkriimar didn’t run into a pack of wolves. I’m sure they can handle themself, but… _Kara bites her lip at the thought. Skyrim wolves are aggressive pursuers and it is difficult to lose them once the animals are on ones tail.

The woman has nothing but time, so she decides to wait. She sits in shrubbery near a tall pine tree. When Sahkriimar doesn’t show in the first hour, she opts to take time brushing off snow from the ground and clearing a dry-ish place to settle. Her bow lays across her lap; she checks and re-checks the number of glass arrows in her quiver to pass time.

_Twelve arrows, glass, sturdy enough that some might survive being shot into flesh. _Kara furrows her brows. She dumps the arrows, melts snow in her quiver using a flames spell, and forces her body to accept the slushy mess of water. It’s the best she can manage for clean water, but it isn’t pleasant. She spends a time grimacing and keeping the water down. By evening, she’s concerned. Sahkriimar is nowhere to be seen and no other life passes on the road below. Her hopes begin to wilt once the sun starts to set. She slumps against her tree and sighs heavily. _This isn’t… good. _

She snaps upright when she hears footsteps. It’s not one set but several; she closes her eyes, breathes, and counts out the amount of steps. _…Three, no—Four, maybe? That’s average number for Thalmor Justicar squads when they are found escorting prisoners across Skyrim. But they usually aren’t… This far south. Bandits, yes, but bandits would be in larger groups. I think. _She bites her lip.

It’s Stormcloak soldiers and the group is larger than her initial estimate. Kara’s eyes widen and she stares at _eight _Stormcloaks in blue and steel armor as the group trudges forward through the snow. Three of the Stormcloaks sport recent injuries. One is gravely wounded and is helped by two others through the woods and unto the road. Something clicks in Kara’s mind and it dawns on her she recognizes some of the faces from Helgen. Not Ralof nor Ulfric Stormcloak, but soldiers in line to be executed. Then her eyes fall on the face of Sahkriimar. Kara’s first reaction is to quietly sigh.

Sahkriimar is flanked by two Stormcloaks, bringing the total to _ten_, and they look no better for wear than when Kara first woke up in the cart. The only different between the state of the possible-_dovahkiin _now and back then is that the Stormcloaks are smart enough to have gagged the _dov _person. It’s a strange sight; Kara expects to see Sahkriimar look enraged, furious, _something_, but instead she only finds dejection on the person’s face. There’s no hint they ever tried to fight back or struggle, as no swelling or bruising mars their skin. It makes Kara’s chest hurt and she can’t help but frown and stare from her point on the slope.

_My words cut that bad? Fuck. I get to deal with a moody dragon spirit and a group of racist Nords who think Sahkriimar is the Dragonborn. Which they might be, but still. _Kara loads arrows into her quiver, straps it to her waist, picks up her bow, and follows them.

As the sun disappears and night falls, Kara finds the darkness to meld with her skin. She doesn’t know how effective it is, or if the bright-red ribbon-like markings that run across her muscles might give any sense of stealth away, but she feels more confident with it. She keeps her steps light and follows the Stormcloak band from a distance. As hours go by, the group carries torches and the guards escorting Sahkriimar move them from the back to middle. It’s not until after midnight, when the highlands of Skyrim lower and transition back to autumnal thickets and brush, that the Stormcloak group veers off to one side of the road. The group travels south, by Kara’s estimate until one in the morning, at which they finally stop. It’s a camp, one of dozens in Skyrim, only she doesn’t recall ever seeing it back when she played through _Skyrim _the video game.

Twenty tents are pitched and erect. Stormcloak soldiers busily tend to horses, a cow, and sparring mannequins. The sounds of faint chatter in the camp cease when the group of Helgen survivors emerges from the treeline. One soldier, a woman who appears to be the leader of the survivors, strides forward to a Stormcloak officer near a fire pit and embraces him in a long hug.

_“Galmar!”_ The woman cries as she holds unto the officer. When Kara stares, she finds both individuals hold striking similarities: the two are Nords, both have rustled, dirty-blond hair, and their facial features hint at a familiar link. Whether siblings or cousins is beyond Kara but she watches the man move back from the woman and stare in joyous disbelief.

“By Talos, you live!” the man, Galmar, is heavily-muscled and dons an ornate fur headpiece that looks less intimidating than it does silky soft. Galmar puts his hands on the woman’s shoulders and stares. “Brayl, how can it be? Word was you and Ulfric were to be executed by those _imperial bastards!_”

“The Dragonborn—The Dragonborn is among us, Galmar,” the woman—Brayl—shouts the words. It must be intentional, because it is loud enough for Kara to pick up where she remains hidden in a pocket of shadows to the north of the camp. Brayl gestures for soldiers to gather around her while two soldiers march Sahkriimar forward and shove them roughly in the center of the gathering. “Zaammeytiid! Dragonborn! They have saved us all! Called a legend from the sky to interrupt the executions! Talos be praised, they have saved Jarl Ulfric and his men—”

“Ulfric—Where is he?” Galmar frowns and looks across the band of soldiers. It seems pointless; even Kara knows the Stormcloak leader would be treated with grand and splendor on arrival had he been with the group.

“He escaped. That much I know, cousin,” Brayl’s back faces Kara; she can’t tell the woman’s expression, but she listens as Brayl continues. “But the High King is strong! He will survive, surely, cousin, we must make for Windhelm and arrange for his return! Ulfric _lives _and the Dragonborn walks among us!”

“But—Why are they gagged?” Galmar turns to Sahkriimar. The _dov _person ignores him. “You—_You_ are the Dragonborn? Spoken in legend, prophesized and foretold—Can you truly speak the language of Greybeards? _The_ _Voice_?”

Sahkriimar’s eyes dim. Kara regrets ever looking upon the scene; she knows how humiliating it is to be a captured prize or trophy.

“Take off the gag, the Dragonborn is an honored guest! Perhaps no Nord, but they are to be welcomed in our ranks all the same!” The officer shouts across the camp. “Do I make myself clear? Off the gag!”

It’s good to know Sahkriimar can shout if they want to, but Kara anticipates no noise to come. Sure enough, once the gag is removed the _dov _person does nothing but stand and avert their gaze to one side. Galmar looks inquisitively at them.

“They are, my cousin, I swear it on Talos himself—” Brayl asserts and makes to throw an arm around Sahkriimar’s short form. It’s almost comical to see such a tall, muscular woman next to Sahkriimar’s short form. “Ask any of us! This one called a dragon! A creature of the sky to our aid!”

“Can you call another? Dragonborn—Call it from the sky—It may aid us—" A Stormcloak soldier exclaims.

“No.” Sahkriimar’s glare makes the soldier flinch. It’s a welcome change for Kara. She notches her bow, just in case, and holds her breath as the conversation continues.

“Good, good, even if you are no Nord—This one knows not to make dragons fall where they be slain!” Galmar laughs and slaps Sahkriimar on the back. It must hurt; the possible-_dovahkiin _flinches from the impact. “Sevir, show Zaammeytiid to the officer’s tent! I’ll see to our brothers and sisters in Talos here but I intend to speak with our Dragonborn friend after.”

_Sevir. _It’s a familiar name but Kara can’t recall where she heard it from.

“With me, Dragonborn,” the soldier known as ‘Sevir’ grabs Sahkriimar by the hand and pulls them through the crowd.

‘After’ turns out to be two hours later. The camp has fallen quiet beyond the groans and moans of pain in the wounded’s tent. Several Stormcloak soldiers remain on watch but Kara can see none take the job seriously, likely lost in the prosperity of having _the Dragonborn _for company. She rises from her hiding spot and creeps around the camp in a semi-circle, making sure to keep the guards on watch in line of sight for her bow. The officer’s tent is, naturally, the largest tent in the camp. Kara finds it with ease; she graces a hill overlooking the southern side of the camp. She can’t see through the tent walls, but she is close enough to hear Galmar’s voice once he engages Sahkriimar in conversation.

“Dragonborn! Zaammeytiid. Let me ask, you’ve seen the cruelty of those Imperial fools? It is loathsome the way they treat our brethren,” It’s a ruse to begin pointing Sahkriimar in the direction of joining the Stormcloak army. Galmar is smart enough not to ask outright. “I have fought a hundred battles but never known a company so brutal as the Empire. They treat us Nords worse than dogs.”

Sahkriimar sucks in a breath. Kara bites her lip. She looks for a spot to climb closer to the tent but finds none as Sahkriimar offers a reply, “I am not a Nord.”

“But you’ve got the look of one! I see it in that tiny figure, those shining eyes—You have every bit of Nord in you as the Imperials in our ranks. Perhaps you are not born of Skyrim, but Skyrim is born out of the heart and blood of folks like you.” Galmar’s voice remains rowdy and loud, but there’s a note of sincerity to the words. Kara imagines he genuinely believes Sahkriimar is Dragonborn, or that Sahkriimar is “good enough” to be an _honorary Nord. _

_He’s a good recruiter. _Kara admits begrudgingly.

“My eyes shine…?” The only thing Sahkriimar responds to is the statement about their eyes.

“Like the moon itself! Or the cut of my axe, strong and valiant. A shining steel blade: you strike at the hearts of Skyrim’s foes.”

“I like the sound of that,” the tone in Sahkriimar’s voice puts Kara on edge. The woman realizes in horror that Sahkriimar is relishing the compliments, the flattery, Galmar’s submission to their superiority. Kara pinches the brow of her nose with one hand and holds back the annoyed sigh that threatens to emerge while Sahkriimar goes on. “Tell me more. What do they call you? Gravel?”

“Galmar _Stone-Fist,_” and Kara begins looking for a route down, one free of spots where moonlight filters through trees, because Galmar’s voice dips into a _husky_, lower pitch. “You are Zaammeytiid. Where does a person so pretty as yourself come from?”

“I fell from the sky.”

“Ha, ha! Of course, like a Divine sent to walk among man.”

“I was sent to serve _a _man.” Sahkriimar’s voice is the same, and Kara doubts the _dov _person understands at all the effect their words might have on a horny Nordic soldier.

Alternatively, Sahkriimar might know _exactly _what they are doing, but Kara has _zero _inclination to listen to the two rut like rabbits. She drops to the ground and lands in soft grass, grateful for the plants cushioning the sound of her landing. She ducks and pulls out a glass arrow; it’s not a dagger but she can use it like one all the same.

“Talos be praised, a warrior sent to serve? On or _off_ the battlefield, Dragonborn?”

“Whatever my Lord asks of me.”

Kara wants to scream. She can hear Galmar _growl_ in pleasure at the words, even when Sahkriimar speaks them so void of _suggestion, _but the sound of the man moving inside the tent makes her snap to focus. She hears Galmar stride to Sahkriimar’s side. A pause. Kara doesn’t want to imagine the two kissing, and she’s grateful to hear Sahkriimar snort. The sound is followed by a muffled gasp of surprise from the _hypothetical dovahkiin_ and Kara takes it her cue to stop things from getting out of hand. Her glass arrowhead slices through leather tent wall like butter and she stumbles in just to hear Sahkriimar _hiss_—

“You’re not worthy of my affection, _joor,_” the words ring with malice. “You’re not Ci—”

_“Who are you?”_ Galmar turns on his heels in a second; the sound of Kara climbing into the tent was not go unnoticed and Galmar’s great-axe in his hands in seconds. The fury on the Nord’s face is enough to confirm Kara’s suspicions.

“They aren’t flirting with you. Keep your dick where it belongs, Stone-Fist,” the not-Dragonborn brings up her bow as she talks, glass arrowhead notched the second she goes inside. “Sahkriimar, what in Oblivion are you thinking?”

“Sahkriimar?” Galmar’s hands clench around his great-axe. He looks strong, more than enough to topple Kara in close-quarters combat, but she doesn’t have a choice. “That is Zaammeytiid! The Dragonborn! You’d be wise to mind your words, gray-skin!”

_“I’m not a dunmer,_” Kara growls. “Why the hell are you here, Sahkriimar? You have no sympathy for landwalker politics! These are Stormcloaks! They don’t give two shits about you!”

“I don’t see why you’re concerned.” Sahkriimar makes to step over to Kara but Galmar intervenes and blocks them with his body.

_He probably thinks he’s helping. _Kara grits her teeth.

“Stay back, Dragonborn, gray-skins are sneaky, sly ones that’ll stab you in the back if you aren’t careful,” Galmar’s tense posture hints at how much he wants to lash out and fight.

Kara snorts. “Almost as racist as the high elves. Great. Enough playing around, Sahkriimar—Get over here so we can go! I’m fucking _freezing!” _

“And if I say _niid?” _Sahkriimar tilts their head to one side. They look amused, but otherwise complacent and satisfied where they stand. “You said it yourself, Kara. You think I belong with the Thalmor. I was trying to make you happy. _Beyn, _the things I do for you, _joor_. _Mey._”

“You know I cannot understand dragon speech anymore!”

“You know her?” Galmar lowers his great-axe and stares Sahkriimar from the side. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“I’m their loyal maid, sworn to protect and serve them to their dying death,” Kara throws the excuse out there. She knows she has no skill or training in speech but she prays to Sithis that the Stormcloak officer buys it. He doesn’t. She growls. “I’m their _friend, _you buffoon! I was at Helgen!”

“How did a Dragonborn like yourself come to know a _gray-skin?_” Galmar’s accusation turns to Sahkriimar. The man is tense and has backed away from _both _individuals. Kara debates shooting him on the spot but keeps her bow and arrow steady in case he tries to make a break for the camp and alert others.

_He has the tent flap shut. _A thought dawns on Kara’s mind and she hisses at the Stormcloak officer. “You disgust me! You never shut the tent flaps normally, Stormcloak—You have no reason to hide from your fellow soldiers unless you want _a moment of_ _privacy_—You intended to seduce them from the start!”

“Perhaps I did—And they rejected me,” Galmar raises the great-axe and growls. “I can take a no, _gray-skin._”

“I’m not a dunmer!” Kara spits at the ground.

“No, but you’re invading Stormcloak territory. Whether you know them or not—Talos be damned, you aren’t here to take them from us when we need them the most!” Galmar _roars _the words and it’s Kara’s cue to let her arrow fly. Her aim is off; being low-level at the start of Skyrim _sucks _and even if it’s not a video game anymore, she knows she lacks the muscle memory to hit a target so easily.

Sahkriimar bursts out in snorting laughter when the arrow pierces the tent and whizzes to the ground outside. Kara drops the bow, rushes the Stormcloak officer, and grabs the great-axe with both hands before he can raise it to strike. He shouts behind him, beyond the tent, “To arms, brothers and sisters! A gray-skin walks among us! She seeks the demise of our Dragonborn!”

_“Tiid klo ul,”_ is all Sahkriimar states before the worlds slows around Kara.

Her body movements become sluggishly slow despite her mind thinking as it should. She recalls experiencing the effects of the Slow Time shout once prior, back in the previous cycle of the universe when she and Sahkriimar faced off as Kara and Zaammeytiid against the other. She watches Sahkriimar’s short figure pick her up and take off running. Sixteen seconds isn’t a lot but it’s enough to make it across the camp; Sahkriimar _throws _Kara to her feet and calls, “Horses, _joor, _horses!”

The entire Stormcloak army _erupts_ in confusion. The drunk watch leaps to their feet but stagger and fall, with one knocking over a cooking pot and throwing embers unto the camp floor. One ember blows into a tent wall and the material lights. Shouts for water ring and soldiers belt warnings of fire and flames as the camp descends into utter _madness_. Some Stormcloak soldiers make sense of what’s occurred and chase after the two, but Sahkriimar is quick and _gol hah_’s a Stormcloak footsoldier into attacking his allies. Kara unwraps the reins of a tan-colored mare from a wooden post and Sahkriimar climbs on without a word, takes the reins, and gallops off.

Kara stares. _Sithis help me not kill them when I have the chance.  
_

She fumbles with the knot of one braying horse’s reins before freeing them and shushing the horse. It’s a frenzy of heartbeats and pounding in her ears as the woman clumsily climbs unto the horse’s saddle and squeezes the horse with her thighs. The horse whines but turns where she leads and breaks into a gallop just as two steel arrows embed themselves where her head was. As the sounds of Stormcloak soldiers fades in the distance, Kara faces front and grins at the sight of Sahkriimar’s mare galloping away a hundred yards ahead.

The two may not be _friends_ but they are headed to Riften.


	3. a simple miscommunication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara and sahkriimar get to riften. sahkriimar decides inns are boring and explores the town. they meet a very interesting man who makes a very questionable sales pitch.

“I have a question.” Kara’s voice draws the _dov _person from their food and Zaammeytiid meets their former Dragonborn’s eyes with one brow raised. Kara pauses, turns over a roll of bread in her hands, and shrugs. “Why did you—The bend will shout. Why did you use all three words of power on me? Two will suffice.”

“I’m not sure. Slipped my mind. _Niid dahmaan. _I did not remember.” Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow on their bowl of stew and they greedily slurp it down without a care for staying quiet.

The two have been in Riften for three days. Four, if one counts the evening they rode into town. Their poor horses were in terrible condition but Zaammeytiid has no regrets using them to get to Riften; they _especially _revel in the small sack of coinage they and Kara received for selling the two horses off to a local stable hand. The money wasn’t much, but Zaammeytiid relaxes at the thought of now possessing sleek, reinforced leather attire on top of a pale blue tunic. They carry new weapons; most of their cut of coin went to purchasing an ebony dagger almost as sharp as a dragon’s tooth.

_Not as sharp, just as lethal. _Zaammeytiid’s hand touches the dagger at their waist fondly. Kara stares. They meet her gaze and squint. “Out with it, _joor._”

They must say it with too much resolve, because other inn patrons and a barkeeper give the _dov _person stares. One patron moves to a different table at the other end of the inn’s ground level. Zaammeytiid smiles to themself and resumes eating their stew.

“For starters—Don’t go around shoving dragon speech at everyone.” Nothing is as amusing as seeing a Dremora be concerned; Zaammeytiid holds back a laugh as Kara continues, voice dipping into a hushed tone, “I mean it—It’ll be easy to pick up that you’re _maybe _the Dragonborn, Sahkriimar.”

“I am _dov_—”

“Not Dragonborn, yadda yadda, you keep saying that. I find myself starting to doubt it, honestly.” Kara bites a chunk from her bread roll, swallows, and shakes her head. “We’re not discussing _that_ right now. What matters is you need to show more self-control. You have Thalmor and now Stormcloaks obsessed with you; I imagine more factions will get added to the list as time goes on. And, to put it frankly, being cocky and arrogant in Skyrim won’t get you far. I tried that in a lot of… What are we calling it? ‘Cycles?’ I tried that in some of my playthroughs when I first got _stuck _in this madness. It’s… Well, when you’re a _consumer _playing a _video game_, you get away with it. But you’re not a _consumer_. Not to my knowledge. You need support of others around you if you want to stay hidden and out of sight.”

“_Joorre _are all _meyye_, not worthy of my affection or attention. You were an exception, but I do not know if you are _joor_ anymore.” Zaammeytiid shovels a chunk of venison into their mouth.

Kara grimaces and looks away. “_Lovely._ Great conversation, Sahkriimar. I appreciate you _cooperating_, Sahkriimar. I know you just want to stay _safe,_ Sahkriimar.”

“I am not Sahkriimar anymore.” Zaammeytiid reasserts the fact. Their brows furrow and they stare at their Dremora companion.

The woman groans. “I’m not calling you _Zaammeytiid. _Besides—You introduced yourself to the Stormcloaks and Thalmor as Zaammeytiid. It would be good for you to go by another name for the time being. Why—” Kara stiffens and eyes the _dov _person with suspicion. “Stop it, you’re staring. Staring is rude; don’t do that.”

“This world really thinks you’re a dunmer.” Zaammeytiid shrugs. “You look Daedric to me. All _joorre _are _meyye_. You’re the only exception.”

“Was Cicero an exception?” It’s not asked out of malice but Zaammeytiid’s eyes darken all the same. They force the rest of their stew down—only the meat, never the vegetables—and slurp up the broth before handing it to the barkeep. They ignore Kara’s words, rise to their feet, and storm up the stairs to the two’s shared room. They don’t bother slamming the door; they know Kara will be there shortly and the last thing they want to deal with is listening to another of her lectures or _words of advice. _

Riften smells like fish.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” the woman begins when she checks on Zaammeytiid an hour later. Kara’s long hair is a mess and needs tender management. The woman approaches the bed and sighs. “I mean it, you know. I know you miss him—”

“I do not want to talk about the Dark Brotherhood. That was,” and they want to say mistake, but _‘mistake’_ would be a lie. They hold their tongue. Zaammeytiid sits upright on the one bed in the room and crosses their arms. They shut their eyes and grimace. “I do not want to think about them anymore. Them or… Cicero.”

_Dii mey, dii dov. _The words ring in their mind. It makes their chest ache and they force the thoughts back. They are _dov_ and they refuse to acknowledge the _krosis_.

“For _tiid_, time being, let us ignore the Dark Brotherhood. Kara.” Is all the _dov _person offers.

“If we’re doing that—Stay far from the orphanage, Sahkriimar. It is… part of the Brotherhood quests.” Kara grumbles.

“I wasn’t planning to adopt a tiny _joor_ anyways,” They stand, brush off their clothes, and make for a spot on the ground to sit while Kara takes the bed and sits on the edge. Zaammeytiid ignores the look Kara gives them. “What are we doing in Riften, _niid-Dovahkiin_? _Dii niid dahmaan, _this town reeks of seafood. Meat but not _slen_. _Dov_ are picky.”

“Aside from getting you a place to avoid Skyrim’s civil war and xenophobic elves? There’s a man here I think can help us. Not—Not Esbern.” Kara clears her throat and lays down on the cot. She rests her head on the bed’s meager pillow and frowns. “Come morning—I’ll look for him then. He’s a member of the Thieves Guild. I plan to get us membership; they have a place in the Ratway where we can hide and it will give us the opportunity to earn gold. That—And we can practice skills this universe reset made me forget.” She groans loudly. The woman turns over on the bed. “—If you’re up when I head out—Just stay here. We got another night’s worth of this room on the tab and I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

“You cannot order a _dov _to sit. I am not a dog.”

“But sometimes you are a _bitch_ and, honestly, I am not having a repeat of the Stormcloak camp, okay?” Kara grumbles. “Just keep to the inn tomorrow until I get back. Then we can go to the Thieves Guild, get a job, a free place to sleep and eat, and maybe even some new equipment since someone spent most of our money on an ebony dagger.”

“I can’t wait to kill with it.” The _dov _person hums thoughtfully. They stop the second they become aware of their actions, recognizing the tune as one a certain jester taught them in a previous cycle of the world. When Kara doesn’t respond they start to ask a question but cease at the sound of her snores. Their body posture relaxes but a frown remains on their face as they stare at the sleeping Dremora’s back, still adorned in fur armor. _Perhaps I should have bought you cleaner clothes. But the blade is beautiful! Sharp! It will kill, kill, kill! _

They are awake when Kara rises at daybreak. They don’t say much beyond complaining about the woman’s repeated request for Zaammeytiid to keep to the inn grounds. The _Bee and the Barb _is a quaint two-story inn in the middle of the port town. It is directly next to the town’s circular plaza where dozens of vendors and street beggars gather. Zaammeytiid can see, in the distance, the stairs leading to Riften’s keep in the town’s northern end. To the western side is a line of beautiful, expensive mansions and homes in addition to a Temple of Mara. To the eastern end are hundreds of back alleys and shady places with Divines-knows-what happening in their midst; further east, past the town’s great stone walls, is a marvelous set of docks home to many ships unloading cargo. The southern side cuts directly past the stables Zaammeytiid and Kara sold their horses at, before the road plunges into the town and bypasses many humble homes and a brothel pretending not to be a brothel.

Supposedly—and they know this as fact, though it’s hard to see from the inn room—there are stairs leading to a lower district of the city where the beggers and other laborers work and sleep at night. Among the doors in Riften’s underside is the entrance to the Ratway, the sewer system said to be infested with skeevers and skooma-dealers. It sounds ideal for committing murder but Zaammeytiid attempts to abide by Kara’s rules. They last four hours before the boredom gets to them and they head out into the sunlight. Their eyes take a moment to adjust and they pull their hood over long, golden hair before the guards can stare at them too long.

_I cannot burn their bodies to ash and ash to dust. They are meyye joorre, but I have self-control. I have order! _Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow. They decide to head for the central plaza of the town, where they recall seeing many illustrious street-vendors.

The streets are busy.

They flip a gold coin at a beggar, an old woman with missing front teeth. They look for Kara but the not-dunmer is nowhere to be found. They wind up handing over a stack of gold coins to one Argonian vendor by the name of Madesi; he gives them a lovely silver necklace with a faint purple sheen to it which Zaammeytiid dons immediately. They have no clue what the enchantment does but it makes them strangely satisfied on the inside. Past noontime, perhaps one o’clock, the sun shines on them especially hard.

Their hood catches on their necklace for the umpteenth time and they yank it down just as a Nord calls to them. “Never done an honest day’s work in your life for all that coin you’re carrying, eh lass?”

Zaammeytiid’s brows quirk. They spin on their heels and find the _joor _that _dare _address a superior _dov _like themself so casually. The perpetrator is none other than a man in red-orange robes that looks like he just came out of a fancy party. He’s well-kept; his hair goes beyond his chin but stops before his shoulders and, at the moment, it is tied back in a loose, almost ponytail-like fashion. He’s shaved recently and sports light stubble and facial hair opposed to a full-length beard; his concern for his looks might be adorable if Zaammeytiid had any inclination toward _joorre_. They note the man’s eyes are an incredibly intense brown, not as light as his hair but rich in meaning all the same.

What draws them to speak is not the _perplexing _choice of attire nor the charming smile on the man’s lips. Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow and they stride up to him without a hint of fear; they stop but a foot away and stare _up _at him. The height difference annoys them, but they hope it doesn’t show as they state curtly. “Not a lass.”

“Ah,” and the man doesn’t seem fazed. “A lad then, well-to-be, well-to-do—”

“Not a lad.” Zaammeytiid find the topic amusing. They see one of the man’s brows quirk up a moment. His smile has begun to come off as a challenge and they force their innate _dov _urges to the ground. “Do not call me such.”

_Joor. _They think the last word, trying to heed Kara’s request to not go around spouting _dov _speak to all of Riften.

“What would you have me call you then?” And the man tilts his head. He’s got a sharp gaze and sharp ears; they can tell he’s looking for the slightest change in their body posture, language, or expression.

They also don’t have an answer to the question, because they don’t know what to say in response. It’s easier to think of their gender like the wind: it comes and goes as it is called, bound to the _dovahkiin _who partake in the world. They know in the previous cycle, when Kara was their _dovahkiin_ and they the _dov_, there were times they took control of the _dovahkiin_’s body. In those moments they were a woman and they wore that fact with pride. In other cycles, when the _dovahkiin _was man, they were man. Yet when they are truly who they are, a _dov _of the sky, a spirit who sold their soul to a Daedra, they are nothing. _Gender_ as it is cannot describe them, at least not ‘gender’ put in common tongue. But the man’s question remains, and they blank on a word.

“Lass..._ie._ Lassie.” Zaammeytiid fumbles the word with as much dignity as a _dov _cursed to _joor slen_, mortal flesh, can muster. Their resolve to not admit they haven’t the slightest clue _what _to call them sets in; they are a stubborn individual and they meet the Nord’s eyes with confidence. They repeat the word, “Lassie.”

“Alright, lassie.” The man’s smile is almost annoying now. It’s a friendly sort of smile but there’s a catch to it; Zaammeytiid tilts their head to one side. The man’s eyes scan them one more time, then the plaza around the two.

Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow. “_Mey, _out with your question. My patience has limits.”

Any hope of heeding Kara’s words go out the window.

_“My _name isn’t Mey, lassie,” the man grins now.

They ignore the statement. For all they care, the man could be named _Chin-Gulf._

The _dov _person resists the urge to take a step back; backing off means admitting defeat to whatever bizarre interaction the man imposes on them. They cross their arms and keep their gaze firm and unwavering. “You mentioned something about coin. Repeat it.” It comes out a command and they find themself annoyed that the man isn’t intimidated. If anything, he himself finds it endearing, because he chuckles. They hiss quietly. “Repeat it. What did you say?”

“I said you haven’t worked one honest day in your life.” His eyes reek of challenge.

Zaammeytiid does not like _joorre_, especially ones that shave. Kara is no longer an exception because in their mind she is Dremora and Dremora are probably not _joorre. _

“Coin or not,” the _dov _person sincerely regrets being so short, as the height lends little to intimidating others. They hope the authoritative tone in their voice is enough to convince him to back down. “It is none of your business, _mey._”

“Name’s not Mey. But that all aside—You’re wrong, lassie, wealth _is _my business.” The man steps back and gestures to the stall behind him. Zaammeytiid doesn’t look; if it’s made by _joorre _it is worthless.

_Unless it is a blade. _They instinctively touch the scabbard at their waist. They don’t miss the man’s quick glance at their waist. Zaammeytiid grits their teeth and forces out the words so pretty-and-nice, “What do you have in mind, _mey_? I need coin.” They keep knowledge of Kara to themself, they have no inclination to share the Dremora with all of Skyrim.

The man’s grin is sly. He leans down and whispers into their ear, “I’ve got a bit of an errand to perform, lassie. Need an extra pair of hands. In my line of work, extra hands are well-paid.”

“Out with it, _mey_.”

“All good in war and love, lassie, some patience doesn’t hurt,” The man straightens upright and his eyes flicker to the side. Zaammeytiid catches sight of a dunmer, a dark elf, manning a single stall by himself. “Plan’s simple—That there’s Brand-Shei. You put a ring in his pocket while the crowd’s looking at me. Ring’s got to be one of Madesi’s. Think you can handle it, lassie? I won’t press if you say no.”

“You doubt me, _joor_?” Zaammeytiid falls for the bait, the challenge in the man’s voice. Their eyes narrow. “_Beyn._”

“Interesting language you got there. Might pick it up from you later,” The man’s eyes gleam. “Where’d you learn it?”

“Go distract, _mey_, before I change my mind.” Zaammeytiid walks into the crowd. They know Kara is going to be unhappy with their decisions and newfound ‘friend.’ They can’t care too much; their mind becomes focused on the job at hand. They make way to the elven man, Brand-Shei, directly; the shout lingers on their lips, but they hold back on it and wait for the supposed distraction.

They regret agreeing to help, because the man in ugly robes stands on a raised level of his stall. He begins to bellow out a sales scheme that would make even Kara cringe, “Everyone! Everyone! Gather ‘round! I have something amazing to show you that demands your attention! Gather ‘round all! No pushing, no shoving—Plenty of room!”

Some of the market vendors hold their faces in their hands. A good dozen travelers that mingled the shops suddenly snap their heads in the mans direction. Multiple travelers look on curiously at the man’s speech. If it wasn’t so cringe-inducing, Zaammeytiid might reluctantly admit the man is _almost _charming with his words. But he’s cringe-inducing; Zaammeytiid gives him a raised brow of disapproval. The dark-elf vendor at the stand behind them appears to notice and shouts out, “Come on, Brynjolf! What scam is it _this time_?”

“Patience, Brand-Shei!” The man—_Brynjolf_—shouts the words without hesitation. “This is a very rare opportunity, and I wouldn’t want anyone to get left out.”

The Argonian who sold them the necklace, the one called Madesi, groans from his stall five yards to Zaammeytiid’s left. The man points at Brynjolf accusingly. “That’s what you said about the Wisp Essence! And it turned out to be crushed _nirnroot _mixed with water!”

_Nirnroot mixed with water. _It brings a faint smile to Zaammeytiid’s lips. They think to the year the Thalmor imprisoned them and Kara, specifically to the night they broke free of the high elves by outplaying and subsequently poisoning the leader of the Thalmor Justicars in his own home, in his own bed. _Nirnroot makes invisibility potions. But I doubt most of you joorre know that, or you’d keep it for yourself._

_“That,” _and Brynjolf has the crowd in the plaza at full attention. The man waves off Madesi’s remarks. “Was a _simple miscommunication, _a _misunderstanding_, but this elixir is the real deal! Lads, lasses, and—” The man locks eye with Zaammeytiid. _“Lassie! _I give you, _Falmorblood Elixir!” _The man just as suddenly turns to his crowd and throws out both hands. One hand balances a brilliant-red potion of sorts in a large glass jug. The other hand waves around the potion, emphasizing it to the travelers at hand and causing some to whisper to one another.

Brand-Shei growls from his stall. He steps out and huffs. “The Snow Elves? Oh, come on, Brynjolf—_The Snow Elves? _Are you kidding me?”

“The one and only!” Brynjolf declares. “Mystical beings who lived in legend—Who were masters of _great magic_—Imagine, imagine now, the power that coursed through their veins!”

Zaammeytiid pauses. They can’t shout Brand-Shei in part of a group. Which means they actually need to get a ring from Madesi and reverse-pickpocket it into Brand-Shei’s pockets. They hurry to the side, to Madesi’s stall, and greet the Argonian with a humble smile. “A ring, _please.”_

“Any ring?” The Argonian blinks and returns to the mindset of a vendor. “Oh, yes! Right. Here, how about this one? Since you’re a repeat customer I’ll give you a discount. Forty gold for this silver band with an amethyst set in it.”

“I only have twenty-eight,” Zaammeytiid lies through their teeth. They can hear Brynjolf’s spiel continue in the background. The _dov _person forces themself to make their smile demure, and they plead softly. _“Please?_”

“—Since—Since you’re a repeat customer—I’ll make an exception.” Madesi swallows and averts his gaze the second the transaction is over. Zaammeytiid takes the ring, thanks him far more profusely than they want to, and wanders over to Brynjolf’s crowd.

At this point, Brand-Shei no longer mans his stall. If the job involved placing rings in the stall _then_ Zaammeytiid would be set. Zaammeytiid curses internally and tries not to be too conspicuous as they walk at an angle and stop short of their target. They eye the dark elf warily; he wears strange breeches and they aren’t sure if the pockets are on the side, front, or back. Brynjolf must notice their hesitation, because he stops in the middle of debating the legitimacy of the _Falmorblood Elixir _with Brand-Shei to _announce_, “In fact—There’s one here today! A real, actual living Snow Elf!”

Some guards now mingle the large crowd. Zaammeytiid counts out four of them. Everyone but them, Brand-Shei, and other plaza vendors appear convinced by the fabled Falmorblood Elixir Brynjolf offers. Brand-Shei balls his fists and huffs loudly, “I’m _sure_ of that, Brynjolf! You going to tell us that’s who gave you the secret of these _potions?”_

“Now that you mention it,” and Brynjolf grins in confidence. “I _must _keep my contact a secret—For their own protection—But I promise it is true! They are here today, in _this _town, and they have given me full permission to market this on their behalf!”

The sky overhead is clear as can be. It’s a warm sunny day in Skyrim.

_“Prove it!” _Brand-Shei shouts.

The crowd around begins to falter. Brynjolf pauses; it is enough for another street vendor to back-up Brand-Shei’s challenge. Another vendor follows. Then—A fourth. People in the crowd begin to talk between each other and more voices rise to agree with the dark elf. Zaammeytiid sees the outline of Brand-Shei’s back-right pocket; they turn over the ring they bought for _twenty-eight _gold pieces in their fingers and step forward as if to pass the man. Their hand reaches out just as Brand-Shei steps back and the two bump into one another. The dark elf turns and Zaammeytiid curses _everything _in their head.

_“Very well!_ To please the crowd!” Brynjolf’s shouts draw Brand-Shei’s attention from them. They place the ring in his pocket and step back. Their eyes meet Brynjolf’s and they find he looks _apologetic _in his stare. His grin is crooked. It dawns on them what he’s doing and they barely manage to cover their ears with their hands as the man points _directly _at them and shouts, “Will our _lovely _Snow Elf step up here!”

Zaammeytiid hates the fact they _know _every ounce of everyones attention is on them. Some individuals move out of their way as they slowly move through the crowd. They can hear whispers; they feel like a trophy paraded for others as they step unto the same-raised platform that extends a foot out from the front of Brynjolf’s stall. The _dov _individual curses at the heat that slowly crawls across their cheeks. They _force _a hideous smile on their lips and ignore one traveler’s comment about their hair.

“You see, Brand-Shei? This here is a real, living, _breathing _Snow Elf in the flesh! Look at the elven grace and beauty that falls from their form! The height, perfectly determined through generations of elves who sought to perform magic over martial arts!” Brynjolf wraps an arm around Zaammeytiid and they stiffen. They let him pull them into his grasp and resist growling when the arm settles at their waist. Brynjolf leans down to them and utters quietly while the crowd converses with one another, “Don’t hide yourself, lassie. Got to make it convincing now—guards ‘round.”

They begrudgingly shift their hair to block sight of their not-elven ears. They smile sweetly and manage not to gag when Brynjolf offers to let adventurers ask questions.

“Where are the rest of the Snow Elves?” One woman asks, a fierce warrior whose incredulous stare makes Zaammeytiid want to burn her alive.

Zaammeytiid forces a lingering smile and says, “Time hasn’t fared well with us. Our _population _has decreased; we’ve turned to a nomadic lifestyle.”

“I heard elves make godly lovers, blessed by Dibella herself,” and this time it is an Imperial man who speaks, one in a pompous two-hued suit and a wicked grin, “You ever bed a human? We could worship Dibella together!” He laughs and a few snorts ring out around the crowd.

Zaammeytiid’s eyes seethe bloody murder. They’re about to cuss him into the ground, _gol hah _him to gut his own intestines, when Brynjolf clears his throat. “It’s rude to speak like that, lad, ‘specially when their _husband_ is right here. Bugger off.”

_Gol hah. Gol hah. Gol hah. Gol hah. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. _Zaammeytiid’s teeth clench behind their smile. _Kara, why didn’t you take me with you? Mey, niid-dovahkiin! _

“I doubt an ugly chap in last years robes could get a snow elf to swear by Mara!” The same young man shouts. He's grinning in a way that reeks of madness and makes Zaammeytiid's stomach simmer in anger.

“Well, _darling,” _Brynjolf averts their gaze. They hope he can sense the bloodlust rising in their hands, the need to draw their dagger and _stab, stab, stab_, as one jester used to tell them so fondly. “You should prove ‘em wrong.”

Zaammeytiid decides they’ll murder him _after _Kara and themself find the damn Thieves Guild they came to Riften for. They have a suspicion about the man, that Brynjolf himself is company to the guild the two seek, and if it helps them get membership then they’ll deal with it. The _dov _person shoves the urge to strangle him aside, grabs him by the collar of his robes, and pull him down. They kiss the damn _joor _and use their rage as a catalyst for a brief moment of convincing passion, going so far to move their hands to his face and caress his jawline. The ‘snow elf’ draws back after and ignores Brynjolf’s look. Their eyes seek out the young man who made it happen in the first place, but he's nowhere to be seen. They still call out, _“Sorry._ I’m taken.”

“They’ve got rounded ears!” It’s the bloody dark elf that speaks, the damn target to the ridiculous pickpocketing, ring-placing scheme that makes them want to _scream _at how far it’s gotten out of hand. Brand-Shei points to the side of Zaammeytiid’s head and they snap a hand up to find their own hair has parted and fallen from Brynjolf’s _affair, _revealing the all-too-not-elven ears. “What a con! This is all a scam!”

“Ah, fuck,” Brynjolf curses under breath. “Alright, lassie, when I give the word—”

_“Mul qah diiv!”_ Zaammeytiid screeches the words of the Dragon Aspect shout. Guards snap to attention and the crowd falls into a hushed state of shock. It pleases them to feel the ethereal white scales line their form, and it _greatly _pleases them to feel the strength and protection of the Dragon Aspect shout course through their body. They don’t give the guards more than a seconds pause before Zaammeytiid scoops Brynjolf up in their arms and _bolts_.

The crowd doesn’t offer much resistance; those that try to intervene are shoved aside by the strength of the thu’um empowering Zaammeytiid’s body. Guards call alarm but the _dov _individual is out of the plaza in seconds, running east. If Brynjolf says something, they ignore the words and ignore _him_ until Zaammeytiid’s gotten lost in the back alleys of Riften. The town is bigger than it looks; Zaammeytiid doesn’t stop careening corners and narrowly changing directions until they can’t hear any hint of sound beyond the waves of the lake expanding east and their own panting breath. When they halt, the _dov _person nearly drops Brynjolf in shock; they forgot they were holding the man at all. They throw him to his feet and their entire body tenses in anger.

_“Mey! Zu’u dov, niid tiid meyye!” _The _dov _hisses and begins cursing in a low, murderous tone. The order they seek from their pact, from selling their soul to a Daedric Prince in the first place, dissipates. They are pleased to see Brynjolf back up with his hands up, eyes careful and alternating between their form and the ebony dagger on their waist. “Not an ounce of _drem _for _joorre _that anger me! _Dii toor bah _is on your shoulders, _mey! Beyn!” _

“You’re trying my patience—Lassie—”

Zaammeytiid doesn’t stop cursing for another minute, inching closer and closer to Brynjolf all the while. He doesn’t flee, much to their morose, but he keeps his gaze sharp on their stance nonetheless.

“_Mey _isn’t a name, it means _fool,_” is the last thing Zaammeytiid spits at the man’s feet. Their entire form shakes in rage but the simmering, stewing emotion starts to settle as they exhale deeply and clench their teeth.

“Rightly so,” Brynjolf considers with a weary, weak smile. His palms remain up but the way they twitch to his left side constantly makes Zaammeytiid think he’s concealing weapons. “But—_But—_You still did it, lassie—You got the ring where it needs to go—”

“_Snow Elves?_” Zaammeytiid growls.

“They haven’t been seen in years, couldn’t hurt to pass you as one—”

_“Husband?”_

“Had to make it convincing—Lassie—Got to keep the crowd under wraps—”

_“Prove them wrong?” _The anger comes back, but they’ve got it under control. They let it permeate their actions _willingly. _They point a finger at him and all emotion flits from their voice, the death stare of a former Dark Brotherhood member evident in every aspect of their being as they utter. “If you aren’t a member of the Thieves Guild I will rip your guts out of your chest and hang you on a pole, _joor_.”

Brynjolf whistles faintly. “—I don’t want to put that to the test. Look, my organization’s had a run of bad luck—I s’pose that’s just the way it goes—But I ain’t having a lovely lassie go the same. Got to think on my feet. Just happened to turn out that way. Didn’t mean nothing by it.”

_“Joor, _you are not worthy of the sky, _lok._” Zaammeytiid exhales with a shudder. They will their body posture to loosen and the avert their gaze to the side _“Dahmaan,_ remember that. Let us not return to this topic again.”

“Your call, lassie.” Brynjolf’s posture remains tense despite the initial impression of his shoulders slumping. He’s a sneaky man, and one with experience in conning others on all fronts.

Zaammeytiid frowns. “You are a member of the Thieves Guild, correct? I stand by what I said. Guts on a pole—”

“Aye,” the man peers at them curiously. They meet his gaze with a scowl. “Look, lassie—I don’t know where the fuck you came from—But if you want to get in then you best control that temper.”

“My kind does not abide by words of _joorre, mey._” Zaammeytiid states.

“—But _Dragonborn_ do.” Brynjolf throws his hands up in the air defensively when Zaammeytiid’s glare returns. “That was a shout, eh? Never thought I’d see it first-hand. Lots of legends about you, Dragonborn. Didn’t see you for a thief. Or short. Or strong.” He squints at their Dragon Aspect armor, a perfect sheen of white over their leather equipment. “I don’t know what you did back there—”

_“’Mul qah diiv.’”_ Zaammeytiid repeats, but not as a shout. “Strength-Armor-Wyrm. It will not last forever. It is _frul, _temporary. But you are wrong, _Brynjolf, _I am not _dovahkiin_. I am _dov._” They don’t explain further, even when they catch sight of the man’s curious glance.

It dawns on them they have absolutely _zero _clue where they are. They don’t know where Kara is, either. Zaammeytiid stiffens and looks at both ends of the alley. They huff, pull their hood up, and turn to Brynjolf.

Brynjolf lowers his hands. He looks smug at the realization. “Lost, lassie?”

“Where are the docks?” Zaammeytiid decides to ask. “Brynjolf. _Joor. _Take me there.”

“I don’t do things for free—” And he backs up a step when Zaammeytiid hisses. Brynjolf huffs and makes for one end of the alley. “_Usually, _usually—But I’ll make an exception, lassie. Come, if we’re to be thieves-in-arms you and I best be friends.”

Though Zaammeytiid has zero inclination to talk, they listen as Brynjolf shares a—very tiny, tiny—bit of history behind the docks of Riften and the town itself. Much of the town used to be richer but past years have led to a decline in exports. The civil war between Stormcloaks and the Empire lends nothing but drops in clients willing to deal with the tenuous travel time between the region of the Rift, where Riften is located at, and other regions across the country. It’s unfortunate but not surprising. Zaammeytiid keeps the thoughts to themself as Brynjolf holds out an arm to stop them from walking further.

The sound of waves is evident. They can hear it beneath their feet, where wooden walkways have since swallowed the alleys and back streets. Zaammeytiid frowns. “Wh—”

_“Sh,”_ Brynjolf’s tone is deathly serious. “I hear trouble.”

_Beyn for the world. Beyn. Beyn. Beyn… _Zaammeytiid’s brows furrow. They take after Brynjolf’s stance and the two sneak through the docks, where a fishery, majestic ships, and the occasional ruffian gathers. After a minute of walking they pick up what the man hints at; they hear the sound of struggling. Two women talk and though Zaammeytiid doesn’t recognize their voices, they _do _recognize the all-too-otherworldly curses someone beckons.

“Hades, Hermione, _Zeus, Arceus, Bahamut—_I’m not trying to _pull _anything here!” The woman shouts.

_Kara. _Zaammeytiid wants to howl in laughter. The irony is too good for them not to smile.

Thankfully, Brynjolf walks in front of them and they know he misses the expression. The man exhales sharply as the two round a corner. Zaammeytiid catches sight of Kara’s disgruntled, pinned form. She sports new bruises and they look terrible on obsidian skin. She’s held back by a muscular lady with muddy-brown hair and firm leather armor. Another lady, dressed from neck-down in black armor with a golden-hued dagger sheathed at the waist, looks ready to punch Kara.

_Again, _Zaammeytiid pauses. _I can’t let them. _

They start to move forward but Brynjolf takes hold of their arm and shakes his head. “Let me, lassie.”

“…Alright.” The _dov _person frowns. They don’t have much choice but to trust him given _supposed future thieves-in-arms. _

What they don’t expect is for the man to stride forward, arms crossed, and greet the woman wearing black with a boisterous. “Little Vex! What are you and Sapphire doing with this lass?”

‘Vex’ stiffens and snaps her head in Brynjolf’s direction. The woman is an Imperial lady with platinum-blonde hair that falls to the base of her neck. Her eyes are light brown, easily mistaken for gold in the sunlight. She hisses and jabs a finger at Brynjolf when he approaches. “I’ve told you not to call me that, Brynjolf—”

“By Jehovah,” Kara grits her teeth. It dawns on Zaammeytiid that the brown-haired lady holds a knife to her neck, not merely keeps her in a chokehold. “Brynjolf! Listen—I know you have _no _idea who I am—”

“Where did you find a dunmer huntress?” Brynjolf peers at Vex with an amused look in his eyes.

“She knows our names. Was asking around the docks for you, actually. Maul informed Sapphire and she grabbed me when I got to town. I have _no _fucking idea what her deal is—”

“I’m trying to join the Thieves Guild! How many times do I need to repeat that?” Kara curses under her breath. Her eyes fall on Zaammeytiid.

Zaammeytiid pretends not to notice, keeping back to the shadows. It doesn’t matter; Vex looks beyond Brynjolf and spots them easily. “—Not like you to bring lays here, Brynjolf. Guess we’re both having an interesting day.”

“Now, look—Look, Vex, try not to say that too loud—” Though Brynjolf speaks in a whisper, Zaammeytiid still hears him. The man nudges Vex in Zaammeytiid’s direction. “This one’s got a temper.”

Any plan Zaammeytiid does or doesn’t have goes out the window. Kara’s pissed, they know that, but they underestimate her anger. The Dremora growls as Zaammeytiid approaches Brynjolf. “You can’t listen to orders for _one day, _Sahkriimar! _One day! _Where on Oblivion did you find _him?!”_

“You two know each other, lassie?” Brynjolf raises a brow.

Vex growls. “They with the dunmer?”

“Don’t try it, little Vex, they’ll blow your hand off, trust me.” Brynjolf makes to pat the woman’s shoulder but she shoves him away. He crosses his arms and looks at the brown-haired woman Zaammeytiid assumes to be ‘Sapphire.’ “Let her go, Sapph.”

Sapphire lowers her blade and shoves Kara forward. The former Dragonborn stumbles a bit before marching past Vex and Brynjolf alike to shove a finger in Zaammeytiid’s face. “I have been looking _everywhere _for Brynjolf—Why are you out of the inn? _How _did you find _him?” _

“I went shopping.” Zaammeytiid blinks. They interpose their body between Kara’s bruised form and Brynjolf and his allies. The _dov_-not-_dovahkiin _tilts their head to one side. “I don’t appreciate you beating up _niid-dovahkiin. _Normally, I would cut you where you stood, _joorre, _but Brynjolf says he is member of the Thieves Guild. Brynjolf,” they turn to him and grit their teeth. “Make them apologize.”

“Can’t do that, lassie, sorry.” The man stares her down.

_“Gol hah, _tell them to apologize,” Zaammeytiid shouts the command without an ounce of remorse. Vex and Sapphire stiffen and stare; it’s satisfying to see the mortals react in such a manner as Brynjolf’s stiff, rigid form rattles off an order for apologies.

“What in Oblivion are you?” Vex hisses.

“They’re Dragonborn.” Kara’s words reek of amusement at Zaammeytiid’s clear aggravation. “Look, the apologies aren’t _necessary—_contrary to what Sahkriimar here says—If you could _kindly _take us to join your guild that would be great. I won’t even hold the whole ‘beaten to shit’ thing over you, Vex, Sapphire. We won’t cause you guys trouble. I won’t, at least, can’t speak for the Dragonborn.”

Vex’s eyes narrow. The woman looks like she’s seething in anger, but she too has self-control and she holds her tongue. Her gaze locks on Zaammeytiid. “Make Brynjolf normal again, _Dragonborn, _then we’ll talk.”

“It will wear off in a few minutes.” Zaammeytiid shrugs. “He deserves it for the snow elf stunt.”

“The _what?”_ Kara asks.

The _dov _person snorts and shakes their head. They turn away and exhale. _“Beyn, _Kara, you do not want to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> riften gets to be a big town in this story because i feel the canon town is a little too small
> 
> aka i love back alleys/streets for settings


	4. she hates the riften ratway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara hates the riften ratway. sometimes she hates sahkriimar, but for very different reasons.

The Ratway brings back memories, and not ones she enjoys. She hates the Riften Ratway. She despises the Ratway. The mess of tunnels are damp, dark, and dank, and they reek of skeever feces, urine, blood, and shit to no tomorrow. Fish guts stain any area that has a ceiling high enough to offer a glance at Riften’s streets. Puddles of putrid, bacteria-infested water riddle the ground. It’s a mess. She hates it. She hates everything about it. At the moment, she especially hates Brynjolf, Vex, Sapphire, and every other member of the Thieves Guild for making her and Sahkriimar wade through the Riften Ratway to get to the Ragged Flagon bar.

“I hate this place,” Kara reaffirms for the twelfth time that hour as she and Sahkriimar climb down to a lower level of the tunnel system. She grits her teeth and eyes the darkness around the two; they rely on nothing more than meager magelight spells for light. The spells barely help. She wants to scream for hours how much she _hates _the Riften Ratway. “I hate this place, Sahkriimar. I hate everything about this. Why the Thieves Guild can’t let us in their _secret entrance _is beyond me. It isn’t like we don’t know of it—By _Cerberus,_ I hate this place!” The latter sentence comes out a hiss after she steps in a puddle.

“I offered to bend the man's will.” Sahkriimar comments as they step _over _the puddle.

“You can’t do that when we’re members of this guild. Mercer Frey will probably tell you that off the bat, if he lets us join. Which he should. He’ll salivate at the possibility of having a _Dragonborn _join a dying faction,” the woman replies curtly. She grimaces and wipes her boot off on stone floor before continuing down a twisting corridor after Sahkriimar. “There’s only one good thing about this place. One. Everything else about these tunnels is atrocious and a crime against humanity.”

“What is that?”

“A crime ag—”

“No, the thing that makes these tunnels worthwhile.” Sahkriimar looks over their shoulder and catches Kara’s eye. They stop walking at the expression and turn around. “Kara. Out with it, _niid dovahkiin_. I do not have _tiid_ for babbles if you don’t have _tiid _for explanations.”

“I don’t,” the former Dragonborn grimaces. “I don’t know if you want to hear it.”

“Tell me as we walk or say nothing, _mey_, but do not tease me with tales.” The two cross a chamber where a river of grime flows beneath a wide stone bridge. Sahkriimar holds out their arms for balance.

“In the previous cycle of the universe,” and Kara broaches the subject with caution, knowing full well how certain topics have become a sore spot for the _dov _person. “I had a contract with a certain organization. It went wrong. I made a mistake in the kill by underestimating how some civilians in Riften care about Grelod the Kind, the keeper of the orphanage in town. Then Cicero showed up and,” she finds it hard not to address it as it as, to offer the words bluntly. “—He helped me escape. I was having a panic attack in these tunnels. He danced the fears away. Slit the throats of dozens of guards.”

She’s surprised to see Sahkriimar’s silver eyes soften. There’s a similar ache in them, one Kara knows all too well.

“He’s a whirlwind of blades.” Sahkriimar states quietly.

“He is,” Kara affirms. She smiles. “He kissed me for the first time down here. In these godawful tunnels, in this filth and grime. Such a bold move. It was—It was something I really needed. It was before I died on earth. When my marriage consumed me and haunted me and I… felt so lost. Those memories are the only good thing to come out of this pit of oblivion. Sahkriimar,” the woman smiles faintly. “Do you ever find it strange that we both found the one jester in Skyrim appealing?”

“_Niid, _no.” Sahkriimar’s response is a statement without hesitation. The two round a corner and find a ladder at the end of the corridor. They walk to it side-by-side. Sahkriimar goes first, talking as she climbs down rusty rungs. “He is the only _joor _worthy of the sky.”

“You say things like that a lot. Worthy of the sky. I don’t always understand it—Is it a _dov _thing? Part of your kind’s culture?” Kara calls the questions out as she follows. The two reconvene at the bottom, where a chamber opens into a labyrinth of corridors and rising levels. Kara grimaces, picks one direction, and starts walking.

Sahkriimar trails behind her. “To _dovah_, there is no greater purpose than domination. We exist to destroy, control, and devour. Ownership of the sky, the _lok_, is a powerful thing; it separates us from _joorre _and blesses us with an intimate understanding of the world that landwalkers cannot hope to fathom. In fact—It is said a _dov _without flight is a _dov _doomed to fall and lose their sense of self. Such was the case for a _dov _trapped and held as a pet in the grounds you call Dragonsreach, Whiterun.”

“I remember that, a little.” Kara frowns. “The sky and ability to fly is that important to your kin?”

“Yes. It is why this cycle functions as my punishment. I am bound to the earth. But that was not your question, _beyn, _Kara. I speak of Cicero with such words because he is someone who is… Was, rather, worthy of being held in such high regard. I viewed him as equal. I still do, _niid dovahkiin. _He is _dii mey.” _Sahkriimar’s words are orderly, structured.

_“Dii mey._ Remind me what that means?”

“My fool.” The _dov _person follows Kara up a set of stairs. “It is why I will not seek out the Dark Brotherhood. _Mey, _I am a fool. This entire universe is a cycle set to punish me. I do not want Cicero to become entangled in this mess of Lord Sheogorath’s will.”

“You said you didn’t make a pact with him. You made one with the Prince of Order?” This topic is newish, or at least new enough for Kara to ask with furrowed brows and a sharp gaze directed at the _dov _person. She frowns. “I don’t understand why, Sahkriimar—"

“Domination of the soul,” they _grin _wickedly at Kara when she looks next. “Ironic! Paarthurnax, the old hoot—He takes your _laas _but in the same breath is no more me than I am him, _niid-dovahkiin. _He sought the Way of the Voice to overcome his innate lust for blood! _Slen! _How ironic! I sought the same, but the knowledge came from _et’Ada. _Old gods. Lord Jyggalag offered the logic and order I needed to control my innate nature. I would have gladly served his side if my Lord Sheogorath did not intervene and save the Shivering Isles.” So many emotions tumble out of their lips, between amusement, nostalgia, and loyalty. The last emotion Kara detects is morose. “—He was not a Daedra originally. He was the Hero—”

“The Hero of Kvatch.. He lived long enough to become the villain. Great,” Kara perks up at the sight of an old, grimy door in the middle of one chamber. She runs ahead and messed with the door handle. It’s rusted and old, gross and stained, and she calls back to Sahkriimar. “Give me a hand!”

“Stand back—”

“Do _not_ use a shout on it!” Kara snaps quickly. “I think this door goes to the Ragged Flagon and they _will _view it as an act of aggression if you storm in there shouting up a storm!”

“No fun, _niid dovahkiin._” But Sahkriimar helps anyways. The two give the old door a shove and it splays open, revealing a murky cistern with a grand pool of water across the center. Walkways wind around the outer edges of the pool; across the chamber Kara spies a small dock; beyond it is a bar with multiple patrons. The familiar faces of individuals she’s bumped into in past playthroughs—_Vekel the Man, Dirge, Tonilia, even Delvin Mallory—_puts her at ease. The lack of Thalmor interrogating Vekel over a certain Blades’ member whereabouts is icing on the cake.

Kara notes the gazes locked on the duo as they follow the walkway around the water. They’re stopped ten yards from the _tavern_ area by an Imperial man with broad shoulders, tanned skin, and the ugliest blond sideburns she’s seen in her life. The thirty-one-year old eyes him without fear; she knows how to play his game. When Skyrim was a video game, she played them all. She touches Sahkriimar’s wrist and directs the _probable-_Dragonborn to stand behind her as she marches up to sideburns and looks him in the eye.

“There are two things to do at the Flagon,” the man’s voice is deep and low. She knows him as Dirge, but she holds her tongue when he continues. “Spend the coin then get out. You looking to cause trouble, dunmer?”

“No.” Kara holds her breath. Let them think she’s a dunmer for all she cares; it’s easier than explaining how on Hades a _Daedra _manifested on Mundus. She can’t recall the exact lore, but she knows Daedra can’t normally pop up on the continent of Nirn; the Daedra are bound to Oblivion, only able to be ‘summoned’ through intensive spellcasting. For good reason, too. She recalls the _Oblivion Crisis, _a catastrophe that nearly overtook the world two-hundred years prior to the events of Skyrim, when gates to the planes of Oblivion opened and allowed Daedra to spill forth.

“Good. Last person to cause trouble for Vekel the Man ended up face-down in the canal. Catch my drift?” When Kara nods, the man grunts in satisfaction and steps aside. “Good. Name’s Dirge.”

“Nice to meet you, Dirge,” Kara doesn’t spend a second longer around the man than necessary. She exhales in relief when Sahkriimar follows instead of chatting the bouncer up. The two finish the walk to the tavern.

It’s a mess. The area is set up to accommodate more parties around the humble bar counter, but the tables are empty save a few people. Kara keeps a sharp eye on a man in enchanted black leather armor; she knows from former playthroughs the man is a former member of the Dark Brotherhood: Delvin Mallory. He’s a tall Breton man with muscle to back up his past, his head is shaved neatly with only faint stubble adorning his jaw and mouth, and his eyes are as observant as she expects.

_In another playthrough you mocked Cicero and I. _She pushes back against the resentment in her stomach. The woman walks past Delvin Mallory and over to the bar. She eyes Vekel the Man, a Nord with an apron over casual tunics. His dark brown hair is combed back but his faint mustache offers a sense of _character _to the otherwise boring bar. Kara swallows and forces a smile. “Is Brynjolf here?”

Delvin Mallory laughs.

“Sure he is. Out in the water, want Dirge to toss you in? Don’t ask questions you have no business with,” Vekel doesn’t look up from where he stands sweeping behind the counter.

“We _have_ business with him.” Kara asserts. “He’s offered us entrance to the Thieves Guild. Told us to meet him here. Is he here?” She repeats the question.

“Maybe he is, maybe he ain’t.” Vekel pauses. “You gonna spend coin? Did Dirge not tell you what you can and can’t do here, dunmer?”

Kara turns to Sahkriimar. The latter blinks and begins to huff when Kara grabs their coin purse from their waist and fishes ten gold pieces. She pushes it across the counter and gives Vekel a stern glare. “Give them the strongest drink you got. Faster it sets in, the better.”

“You not a drinker?” A Redguard woman takes a seat at the bar. The woman has dark brown skin, dark hair pulled back, and armor every bit indicative of how vastly outmatched Kara and Sahkriimar will be if a fight breaks out. The lady snorts when Kara doesn’t respond; she shrugs and turns to the bar but the words she speaks are directed at the duo nonetheless. “Let me be clear with you, elf, Vekel and me—We got a thing going. Try anything and it’s gonna be real bad for your health.”

_Tonilia. _Kara swallows and nods. “Right. I understand.”

Sahkriimar’s face when Vekel places a large mug of mead almost makes the trip through the sewers worth it. She snorts and slaps Sahkriimar on the back lightly. The latter stares at the mug then at Kara. “What do I do with this, _joor_? Throw it?”

“You’ve seen drinks before. Don’t bullshit me, Sahkriimar. It’s yours, drink up.” Kara sits on a bar stool and eyes the likely-Dragonborn. “I’m curious to know if you’re as loud and homicidal drunk as you are sober.”

“Are you challenging me, _joor?_” Sahkriimar snatches the mug. “Don’t provoke a _dov_.”

“Mhmmm.” Kara raises a brow. She catches sight of Vekel and Tonilia both staring. The woman nearly jumps out of her seat when the hand of one Delvin Mallory comes crashing unto her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze not so playful nor affectionate as it is a warning. Her head snaps to look at him and she eyes him cautiously. “What?”

“Lemme guess. Brynjolf picked you up the street and dropped you in the thick of things without tellin’ you which way is up?” Delvin takes a seat next to Kara. He ignores Sahkriimar; the hooded figure is mid-mead mug. “Got to say, didn’ think the Dragonborn’d take an interest in our little bunch down here. Dunno how he passed you off as a snow elf—”

“Snow elf? What—No—That wasn’t me—Sahkriimar!” Kara waits for the likely-Dragonborn to finish their drink. She raises a brow. _“Snow elf stunt? _What in Oblivion happened?”

Sahkriimar looks woozy. Kara doesn’t know if the _dov _person has ever been drunk before, or if they’re simply a lightweight. Kara feels a sliver of regret but it dissipates once Sahkriimar lets out a loud belch. The individual blinks. “What?”

“The trick you played in the marketplace,” Delvin tilts his head to one side. “Ain’t no way anyone could miss it. You shouted up a storm, felt the walls shake down _here_. Like the Greybeards up the mountain were singing.”

_“Mul-qah-diiv.”_ Sahkriimar sways where they stand. “Strength-Armor-Wyrm. I used it real good. _Beyn, _Kara, not coming to see me. I did _real _good, Kara! I bought a wing!”

“A wing?” Kara cringes.

“A wing—For your _hand_,” Sahkriimar holds a hand in front of Kara’s face. The woman shoves their hand away as the _dov _person rattles off. “—I put it in a _pocket _of the elf! The dark elf. The Brand one. And then—Then—_Chin-Gulf_—”

“Brynjolf.” Kara follows easier now. She finds herself smiling faintly.

“He’s _mey_! Fool! But not _dii mey_. Not my fool. He’s _a mey_, _dovahkiin,_” Sahkriimar shakes their head and wraps their arms around Kara’s shoulders. They rest their head against the back of hers and sigh loudly. “You are truly _bahlaan fahdonne, dii dovahkiin. _All other _joor _seep of _pahlok_. _Beyn._”

“No—That—I don’t know half of what you’re saying, Sahkriimar, but—What happened at the stall with Brynjolf?” Kara shoves the individual away. Sahkriimar plops into a seat and puts their head on the counter. “Sahkriimar. _Sahkriimar!”_

“Claimed to be husband. Kissed him. Not snow elf. Ran. _Pahlok_ _joor, _I want his head. Cut off from _slen_.” The individual rambles off words, slightly flushed by this point. “_Slen, slen, slen. _Want.”

“I told you, lassie—It’s nothing personal, guards ‘round and keeping watch. Got to stay a step ahead of them.” The voice makes Kara sit up straight. She catches sight of a man in dark armor emerging from beyond a sliding cupboard in a back corridor of the tavern. The Nord’s got a gleam in his eye, confidence to his step, and his ginger hair looks unfeasibly brown in the light. She knows him as Brynjolf, but she keeps that to herself until he walks up to the counter and grins at her and Sahkriimar. “Color me impressed, lass, lassie! I wasn’t certain I’d ever see you again. We haven’t _properly _introduced ourselves. I’m Brynjolf. You two?”

“I hate the Ratway.” Kara makes her displeasure known. “Kara. This is _Sahkriimar._”

“The Dragonborn.” Brynjolf nods.

“You—_Slen_—” Sahkriimar stands.

“This one can’t hold their drink? Lassie, you look ready to fall down a well—” Brynjolf raises a brow when the individual staggers to them. “What is it?”

“How in Oblivion you pass one of these two off as a snow elf?” Delvin snorts. “One’s a drunkard and the other’s a dunmer. Anyone can see that.”

“Told you not to hide, lassie.” Brynolf’s hand falls on Sahkriimar’s hood and pulls it down.

Kara can’t hold back her audible, long _groan_ of annoyance when Delvin whistles. She feels the similar pitter-pat of jealously stir in her chest. It’s a gross feeling and she doesn’t _want _to perpetuate it but seeing the men—and one woman, Tonilia isn’t as sneaky as she makes herself out to be—stare at her former _dov_ makes her want to scream. She sees how resentment builds for individuals who travel with the Dragonborn; it’s a fucking nuisance to constantly be reminded how _glorious _and _grand _everyone finds them. She finds some solace in Brynjolf’s snort when he turns and makes to sit next to Delvin.

“See, Delvin, plenty to work with. Even if a bit _short_.” Brynjolf eyes Sahkriimar with an amused grin.

Kara can’t resist a faint smile. _At least I’m taller. _

If she had to put a finger on it, she’d pin Sahkriimar’s fleshy human form at five-foot-one, maybe five-foot-two if she felt generous. She doesn’t, and five-foot-one it is. She’s far more modest at a humble five-foot-ten. At least she can hold height over Sahkriimar when the drunk _dov _returns to their usual homicidal tendencies.

“Hope you two folks don’t mind waiting,” Brynjolf pushes coins at Vekel and the latter makes him a drink. “Guildmaster’s a bit busy, he’ll give you a once-over when he’s good and free. By the way, _lassie, _remember what I said about your temper—If Mercer says you’re out because you’re snappy then you got to get. Can’t do a thing about it, sorry.”

Sahkriimar sways and reaches out to grab something. Their balance is off and Kara doesn’t feel compelled to catch them. The _dov _person connects with Delvin and latches unto him. The former Brotherhood member smiles ear-to-ear. “Didn’t know you were inter—”

“Delvin, stop being a pervert, they’re _drunk_,” the sharp words come from the back corridor, emerging the same way Kara caught Brynjolf come from. Vex is a swift and nimble woman; she has Sahkriimar off Delvin in seconds. The woman shoves Sahkriimar’s mumbling form to Kara before she turns and _hisses_. “You get any fucking ideas with the rookies and I’ll cut your throat where you stand.”

“That’s our little Vex, always a people-pleaser.” Brynjolf accepts a glass from Vekel and sips the mead. He hums.

“You two’ll probably regret this. This place’s a dump.” Vex growls at Kara and Sahkriimar alike. “Look, we didn’t get off on the right foot. And I’m not apologizing for it, either, you two know jack shit about being thieves, sneaking around, or keeping your mouths _shut_.”

“It got us here, didn’t it?” Kara asks. She touches her left cheek, just under where she can feel swelling from one of Vex’s earlier strikes. “Now we’re _together.”_

“Oh, Vex, going for this one?” Tonilia raises both brows and leans forward in her seat. She doesn’t seem to care about Vex’s furious glare, as she calmly adds. “I can see it happening. You need a break from men. Maybe less fist-fights outside the bedchamber—”

“I’d be interested.” Kara intends the words as a joke—maybe not—but the blush that creeps unto Vex’s face takes her back and makes her stop. She feels eyes turn to her and the woman swallows. She stands and struggles to stay composed while calmly stating, “What? You haven’t met a woman who beds more than just one gender? Have none of you gone to a temple of Dibella before—"

“I could rip your head off.” Vex snaps. If Sahkriimar were sober the two would be peas in a pod.

“Easy, Vex, easy—Look, uh, lass,” Brynjolf stands up and acts as a buffer between the two. “I don’t remember your name—”

“Kara.”

_“Kara, _but you’ve got to watch your tongue. Vex’s got bark _and_ bite.” Brynjolf warns. He glances around the bar and sits back down.

“Plenty of other nice qualities, too,” Delvin laughs at the leer Vex gives him. He pushes his stool back and stands. “Can’t say you don’t, little Vex. You got a way with words, whims, and looks.”

“_Ov dii thu’um, joor, dii dovahkiin _sings about your beauty—_Dun slen grah_,” Sahkriimar sits upright enough to jab a finger in Vex’s direction. Their voice is woozy. “She would—Kara could—Kara would _grah_ you—Fist you—”

If Sahkriimar intends to spurn Vex into a rage, it works. Kara’s eyes grow wide and she shoves Sahkriimar behind her, mumbling apologies that fall flat. “That isn’t—I know what it _sounds _like—They’re _drunk_—Just drunk—”

“You would do _what _to me!?” Vex leaps forward before Brynjolf, Delvin, or Tonilia can stop her. The white-haired woman is as fast to draw a blade as Kara is to stumble backward, turn, and leap over a table. None of this is the way she wants things to go but the _damn Dragonborn _has set something in motion and she needs to keep out of Vex’s grasp to avoid a knife to the throat.

She hears dishes crash to the ground and people rise to their feet. The former Dragonborn ducks under a table as Vex’s knife _slams _into the wood and splinters it. The thief fails to wrench the dagger out and kicks the table over in rage; Kara headbutts her in the moment and sends her sprawling. She backs up, hands up, and shouts. “This is a _misunderstanding—_”

“You’re gonna be a misunderstanding, disgusting bitch!” Vex spits and circles her.

_Muscle memory, muscle memory—_When Vex makes for a grab, Kara ducks beneath her. The woman throws two punches but Kara brings her hands up fast enough for them to take the blow in her face’s place. She drives her knee into Vex’s gut and hisses when the woman stumbles backward, nearly taking Kara down in the process. Vex gets to her feet and holds up her fists. Kara weaves around one swing and yelps when a fist connects with her cheek; she staggers back and two more blows follow. The woman falls on her back and Vex straddles her; hands wrap around Kara’s throat and she throws her strength into headbutting the damn Imperial before her windpipe is crushed. Vex curses and falls off her, clutching her head.

Kara rolls to the left and manages to pull herself up. She kicks Vex when the latter makes for her ankle, and she doesn’t have an ounce of apology in her at the blood that gushes from the former’s nose.

_“Enough of this madness!”_ Brynjolf and Delvin make to step between the two but it’s not them who speaks. The words come from a Breton male with a stern jawline and eyes that remind Kara a little too much of her husband in another world. The man is clearly well-respected, as all members of the Thieves Guild get to their feet, straighten up, and nod at his words.

“Mercer.” Brynjolf greets with a tense stare.

“What is the meaning of this, Brynjolf? Vex? Who in Oblivion are these two?” The guildmaster growls the questions and strides to Kara. She flinches backward when his stare lingers too long; the man has gristly brown hair that looks ready to leap and attack _her _if she so much breathes the wrong way. Mercer glances at Sahkriimar’s form, slumped at the bar, then directs his gaze back to Brynjolf. “These are the two you were talking about?”

“The recruits,” Brynjolf glances at Sahkriimar from the side. He looks at Kara. Kara can tell the regret in his voice even though he tries to mask it under a calm, casual tone, “The ones I mentioned. One’s Dragonborn.”

“Which one?” Mercer snaps.

Kara doesn’t hesitate to jab a finger in Sahkriimar's direction. The damn _probable-_Dragonborn can be drunk and in trouble for all she cares, especially after they nearly made Vex stick a skewer through her.

“This better not be another waste of guild resources, Brynjolf. I’m taking it from your cut if any unexpected costs come from these two mucking up.” Mercer’s statement is law. Brynjolf doesn’t deny it, simply nods. Mercer huffs in understanding and looks at Kara. “Since the _Dragonborn _is a rotten, alcoholic mess, you better hear this and hear it good. Cause I’m not repeating myself and if either of you two mess up, you’re out. If you play by the rules, you get rich. You break the rules, _my rules, _you’re out. No debates, no discussion. You do what I say when I say it. Brynjolf’s the second head around here; if I haven’t given you an order then take it from him. You respect those who lead you and keep your mouth _shut_ otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.” Kara swallows the words. She keeps her hands at her side. She feels nausea begin to brew in the pit of her stomach; the feeling expands to a hint of panic across her hands and knees. She hopes the obsidian-black nature of her Dremora skin hides the fact she must be pale as a ghost; Mercer’s presence is too much like her husband’s for her not to react.

“When _Dragonborn _gets sober, send them to me. I have words for them,” Mercer crosses his arms and eyes Kara despite the next order going to Vex. “Vex, introduce them. It’s the least you can do for tripping on your feet.”

“She’s got reflexes,” Vex’s words are a surprise for Kara. The thief grits her teeth and takes a handkerchief when Delvin offers it. She holds it to her nose. “Bitch knows more about fighting than she lets on.”

“We’ll keep that in mind.” Mercer dismisses them with a grunt. He turns and walks past the group to Dirge, taking the man aside. Kara doesn't catch much of the words beyond _'face'_ and _'sculptor.'_ She doesn’t care.

Brynjolf has a faint smile to his face. She catches his gaze and holds it. When he extends a hand she shakes it. The man’s smile becomes a charming grin, “Best outcome, eh, lass? Our little Vex here will show you and lassie around. Try not to get too carried away,” he winks. “Welcome to the _Thieves Guild.”_


	5. not worthy of the lok

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zaammeytiid gets acquainted with several guild members. mercer frey gives them a job that makes them want to grovel from the boredom.

It’s been a while since Zaammeytiid has experienced the Thieves Guild. Aside from the previous universe cycle, they can’t recall when they dived into the depths of the rapscallions that live in the sewers beneath Riften. Suddenly having the form of a _joor _and joining the Thieves Guild first-hand is an interesting experience. They have access to an entire cistern of sneaks, thieves, and tricksters every bit as passionate for the trade as they are for domination. The passion is almost commendable, but to acknowledge it means admitting some _joorre _beyond Cicero have meaning in the world.

Two days pass in peace. Though they receive frequent reminders and warnings by guild members to _go talk to the guild leader he’s looking for you_, Zaammeytiid finds everything but the thought of approaching Mercer Frey tolerable. They know why; vague memories point to him being someone who is _bad_, _not good, _and _hypothetically liable to stab them in the back later._ There’s no reason to do anything more than bare minimum. Even if there was, their former _dovahkiin _makes a point early on.

“The universe reset; we have to teach ourselves how to do everything again,” the conversation comes from the first day the two are officially _members _of the guild, when Kara basks in the meager training room the guild offers. “I suggest you do the same. Especially since you can’t rely on me to save you in a pinch.”

It was and is and remains a _very _convincing point. The comments are what leads Zaammeytiid to, over those three days, attempt a variety of things while engaging their new guild members. The first is lockpicking; the guild has spare lockpicks lying around in _droves _and they trip over one on two separate occasions. But they pick themself back up anyways; the _dov _person—not _dovahkiin_, regardless of what everyone else says—collects a dozen and begins to experiment with lockpicks in spare chests and crates in the same training room as the archery dummies. They do it for hours; they sit around lockboxes and tiny chests and fiddle with their lockpicks until twelve break. When those break, they get up and go to find more.

By the time they give up on learning the art of lockpicking, Vex has begun shaking her head in sheer amusement. “You’ll break the damn tumblers in the locks with that much force.”

“I’d rather break them than put up with this, _joor,_” their response at the time is only compounded by their final pick breaking. They screech and rant and rage in _dovah _tongue while the Imperial thief shakes her head and mumbles something under her breath.

They try archery next. It’s a good skill to have, they’ve struggled with a bow before, and they figure maybe Kara and them can bond a bit over the weapon. The _not dovahkiin _finds Kara on day two with a wood elf who dons a hood similar their style. Zaammeytiid hasn’t swapped the hood they bought for the Thieves Guild uniform, but they admire the apparel all the same; it seems to function well enough to warrant a nod. Kara, like the elf, wears the entire Thieves Guild uniform from head to toe; she has changed out of the bloody fur armor Zaammeytiid initially _found_ into a sleek set of beige-brown leather and fabric, complete with slacks, a long blouse, gloves, hood, and boots.

It looks better on her than the wood elf. The thought reasserts itself when the wood elf next to her opens his mouth, “Come here a second.”

“No.” Zaammeytiid ignores him.

It’s not enough for the elf. The wood elf—_bosmer_, they recall faintly—is a man with beige skin and sharp laugh lines. He huffs at her; his hood hides his eyes but they hope they express fear at their glare. “Afraid of a little fun, are we?”

“_Dov _do not fear. We dominate. _Destroy._” Zaammeytiid grits their teeth.

“Sahkriimar, mind your tongue. He’ll shoot it off.” Kara offers the words as she holds her lovely new hunting bow up, notches an arrow, aims, and fires. It hits one of the dummies but embeds in the shoulder, not the intended target if the look on Kara’s face says anything. She walks over to the mannequin, pulls the arrow out, and returns to the elf and Zaammeytiid with a sigh. “Look, no offense Sahkriimar, but if you start snapping at others here I am _not_ tagging out when Mercer bans you from the guild.”

“He’s a _joor_, a _mey_.” The _dov _person takes a seat on a larger chest, behind the two. It’s one of many used to practice lockpicking, only they have zero intention of attempting such nonsense again when brute force is the practical option. As Kara resumes her practice, Zaammeytiid eyes the wood elf. He approaches their side and props a barrel upright to lounge next to them. “…Out with it. Do not waste my _tiid_.”

“You really should keep a lid on your dragon speech—” Kara calls back from where she stands.

“I quite like it; it’s decadent to know the Thieves Guild is home to someone so _exciting _as the Dragonborn. You must hear that a lot, no, Sahkriimar?” The wood elf raises a brow. He extends a hand. “Niruin.”

Zaammeytiid blinks. “You know my name.”

“Sahkriimar, yes, but I wanted to hear it from _you_. You have a certain voice, and that isn’t just me referencing your innate magic. You are… How should I put it? _Impressionable?_” Niruin crosses one leg over the other and tilts his head to one side. “To think the Eight Divines find you fit to be the legendary hero—You can fool anyone with a smile, charm a crowd with a spin. You’re ravishing to look at. I wouldn’t mind seeing what’s under those clothes _myself_—"

“The stone fist was more interesting.” Zaammeytiid grunts and faces Kara. Their eyes narrow. They ignore the befouled look on Niruin’s face and take note of the way Kara stands, her grip on the bow, the focus in her eyes and aim of the weapon. It’s far more appealing than an elf who could never fly. At least Kara was once _dovahkiin_; Kara can understand the beauty of the sky, grace of the air, and danger of the winds.

_Dii dovahkiin niid tiid. _The thought rings in their head. Their eyes soften a moment before they shake their head and snort. _Not dovahkiin now. But still respectable, Kara. For a Daedra. Worthy to protect._

In the end, Zaammeytiid gets no archery done. They spend most of the time verballing dissuading any of Niruin’s attempts to strike conversation. Their mind is a mess of Kara, bows, arrows, and the increasing desire to strangle the _bosmer _nearby with the bow-strings of Kara’s weapon. They excuse themself after the third hour of nonsense and spend the rest of day two avoiding the area of the guild where Mercer Frey lurks.

The Guild has its home not in the Ragged Flagon but through the sliding cupboard they vaguely remember from their drunken haze of a few days back. The cupboard leads to another door, which leads to a corridor, which leads to a _third _door with intricate locks and puzzling paneling on both sides. The puzzle door opens into a second cistern, the headquarters of the guild, and the cistern expands in multiple directions via smaller, well-lit tunnels. The tunnels lead to various areas around the guild: the vault is of the corridor directly across the main doors, to the right of the vault is a slender tunnel leading to the guild’s self-proclaimed _secret exit _and _extrance_, to the farthest right is a corridor that leads to mess of inquisitive papers scattered across one desk among other lavish decor, also known as Mercer Frey’s quarters, while the left has a fork that branches into the far-left private chambers of guild members, a common area doubling as a bunk hall for newer recruits, and lastly a door that connects to the fork’s right: the training room.

It’s horrifyingly big, yet never big enough for them to avoid a guild member. They try over the course of the third day. They don’t _enjoy _dealing with others beyond necessary; _dovah _live to dominate alone lest they have mates. Companions are irrelevant; _minions _are essential. In the current setting they are forced to deal with the former.

This first comes in the shape of a tall man with a wide forehead and thick brown-tinted burgundy hair. They find out how tall when they run into him after turning a corner too quickly; they smack against his leather armor and growl as they stumble backward. Their hands go to their forehead but to their surprise they feel coarse, rough hands brush their hands away. “Hold still. I don’t think you split anything open.”

The man is tall; he has at least a foot over them. They find their eyes looking up, and up, and _up_, until they lock eyes with his surprisingly calm brown ones. Zaammeytiid’s brows furrow. “Strange, _joor_.”

“Oh—You’re that Dragonborn,” the man stiffens and steps back. He offers a calm smile, but his voice dips a tone deeper. “Sorry, missed you from _up_ here. Name’s Rune.”

“A strange name for a strange _joor_. I am Sahkriimar. Where did you get your strange name?” They tolerate his presence if only because he hasn’t done anything to warrant insult. Yet.

Rune’s eyes gleam. “You want to know?”

“Speak, do not tease a _dov_. They will bite you.” The _dov _person warns.

“No.” There’s a pause. Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrows. Then—Rune laughs and smiles down at her, “Joking, joking. Look, I don’t know my birth name. Don’t care. But the man who raised me, my father, he found me on the coast near a shipwreck. Had a small stone in the pocket of my breeches. Covered in strange, intricate runes—Hence the name. Don’t wear it out.”

“Very well.” For now, Rune remains tolerable. Zaammeytiid indulges the mortal in conversation. “Rune—Where is this _tiny pebble _you washed ashore with? Show it to me.”

“You aren’t the boss here, Dragonborn.” Rune’s hand pats their head.

Their growl is enough to make him gaze down at them apologetically.

“Fine, fine, here—Give it back after! I’ve spent near every last coin I’ve made in this guild trying to figure out what it means. I’ve even taken the damn thing to the College of Winterhold.” The Imperial man fishes a strange rock, white as marble, out of his pocket and hands it over after a moment’s pause. “Don’t lose it.”

“I intend to return it to you, _joor_, calm.” The shout of _Kyne’s Peace _tugs on their lips but they have order. They keep their _dov _nature under control and focus on the stone in their hands. It’s a pretty thing; it is solid white and has faint, subtle symbols carved on the sides. Though they cannot make out the language, something about it is familiar. The longer they hold it in their hands the more they want to begin screaming at how the thought lays on the tip of their tongue, just a syllable away—but they can’t remember. They grimace and return the stone. “It is not the script of _dov _tongue.”

“I know that much. I once shilled out a good thousand gold to Ulfric Stormcloak just so the man would look at the damn thing and tell me he doubt it was written in anything used by Greybeards. Funny how that works. Bet he put that gold to good use.” The man, Rune, now that they peer at him—He looks strange, a bit off, not in the sense of being not-him, but in the sense of…

“Have we met before?” Zaammeytiid tilts their head to one side. They feel troubled. They should know him, they know they should. His face is so _him _but their mind can’t trace back to _where_.

“Can’t say we have. I have run into many faces, none like yours.” Rune laughs and shakes his head. “Sorry, Dragonborn. That reminds me, speaking of looking for folks,” the Imperial pauses. “Word has it Guildmaster has it out for you. Might want to meet him before you run his patience dry. An angry Mercer Frey’s a dangerous Mercer Frey.”

“I have little time for _joorre _who are insatiably irritating. I’m not afraid of Mercer Frey.” That draws their conversation to a close, and Zaammeytiid pushes past the strangely-named man before he can speak further.

They are out of luck, because in hunting down food in guild’s main cistern, they nearly careen straight into the very man they seek to avoid. The tall, stern figure of Mercer Frey is not one they want to confront; they don’t admit to feeling fear, but they know their behavior is suspicious. They keep their arms at their sides, step back, and look Mercer Frey in the eye. It’s annoying to constantly strain their neck staring up; their _joor _form is far less perfect than they could have anticipated. Everything is a pain when one isn’t fifty feet tall.

“The Dragonborn I was trying to find. Where you’ve been hiding? C’mon, let’s take a walk,” Mercer Frey takes them by the arm and drags them across the guild. They despise the glances and stares other guild members give them. They catch Kara’s eye as Mercer pulls them through the central cistern; Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow at the nervousness that emerges on Kara’s face. They keep their own reactions to themself; they hold in every ounce of anger, rage, and fury that wants to lash out from the _joor _touching them. Mercer takes them into his quarters, lets them go, and shuts the door while they step back and grimace.

“Nice room.” Is the best Zaammeytiid can offer the man. _Ugly décor, beyn, beyn, beyn. How anyone could call this home is a testament to their pahlok! Mey! _

Mercer Frey’s eyes are deadly. He’s a man of experience and a man with a fuse. They pick that up; they know to keep their distance. Any time he steps forward they circle him and assert distance between the two once more. It’s a strange dance, perhaps the worse they have ever done.

“You were _drunk _the first time we met. I didn’t get to give you a proper welcome.” Mercer stops in his strides. He crosses his arms and stares down at them. “There’s a couple of rules to this guild. I expect you to obey them.”

“Kara said you weren’t going to repeat yourself.” A touch of sass is present when the sentence slips out. Zaammeytiid holds their breath and stares at Mercer.

He grits his teeth. “—Sure. I won’t repeat myself. I’ll keep my word. But you best understand who is _leader_ here, _Dragonborn. _I run this guild. You do what I say when I say it. Understand?” He’s challenging them and they hate they can’t meet the statement with a river of flames or icy inferno. They hate that he _knows _they can’t retort the way they want to. It’s a power struggle he wins. He walks to their defeated, seething form and growls sharply. “One wrong move, one wrong step, one wrong _anything _and you’re out. If I catch you shouting _any _of my subordinates—I’ll let your body rot in the canal.”

“Yes, sir.” Zaammeytiid hisses.

“Good.” They want to tear his throat out when he smiles. Mercer grabs their arm and wrenches them to the door. He pauses before opening it, “I got a job for you, since you’re _my _subordinate. There’s an estate on the lake west of Riften. Stake it out, get notes on the guards, their shifts. Don’t disappoint.” They are forced out of his quarters and back into the corridor that connects the chamber to the central cistern. Zaammeytiid stands facing the shut door; they stare at it in utter rage.

A _joor _dare touches them. A _joor _dare gives them commands. A _joor _unworthy of their approval! So weak and haughty and _easy to snap in two. _How they long for their razor-sharp beak, the power of their jaws to snap limbs in two, for their serrated talons and thick claws, the tail of a beast that can send a man flying—They are _pitifully _meager and small as a _joor_. They find their shoulders slump. Anger gives way to sorrow, to _krosis_, and they grimace at their own turbulent emotions.

They don’t look up when they hear a set of footsteps approaching. They can feel Brynjolf’s eyes bear holes in them as he asks, “Lassie, what are you expecting standing ‘round outside Mercer’s door? If you want something take initiative.”

What they don’t expect is Brynjolf to go and knock on the guildmaster’s door. They stiffen and begin to hiss but when Mercer opens the door, they shut their mouth and seethe. Brynjolf greets Mercer with a nod and gestures at Zaammeytiid. “This one wants to talk with you, Mercer. Go on, lassie, say your piece.”

“We’ve spoken. Dragonborn has a job to do; get started on it.” Mercer slams the door shut.

Zaammeytiid grimaces. Save for _maybe _Rune and definitely Kara, everyone else so far is utterly hopeless. Especially the wood elf, and especially Brynjolf. They eye the latter with scrutiny, but he meets their gaze without so much as flinching. “Guild leader got you a job? Impressive. He keeps those for us thieves who don’t shout in the middle of a town plaza.”

The _dov _person decides it’s perfect time to get started on Mercer’s job. They stride beyond Brynjolf, across the cistern, and navigate through the snaking corridor leading to the Thieves Guild _top secret _entrance and exit. It’s nothing fancy: they climb a ladder at the end of the tunnel, the ladder leads to the grounds beneath a mausoleum coffin, they pull a chain mechanism to unlock the exit, and lastly press a specific corner of the mausoleum coffin to move it back into place. They think they hear the chain mechanism activate again once they’re out of the graveyard the mausoleum lingers in, but they aren’t sure. They don’t care; who goes in and out of the guild has their own business and they have theirs. They slip by guards who drink mead on the job at Riften’s gate and embrace the wild lands of Skyrim.

The area Mercer wants them to look at is a settlement plopped in the middle of Lake Honrich; it is a private meadery known as _Goldenglow Estate. _The name is familiar, but they don’t care to dwell on it as they seek a set of thickets high up one bank of the lakeside. They make their camp in a tucked-off dwelling of thick trees and thriving bushes. It isn’t the most comfortable, but it works, and they are kept far from the road where they know travelers run into trouble. With the use of the shout _Aura Whisper, _or _laas yah nir, _the aura of all living life in the area explodes into their vision in permeable blobs of red. Repeating _laas yah nir _gives them a much-needed advantage to counting out bodies present and assessing patrol routes.

It’s a boring job. Five hours in, when the daylight bows down to the moon overhead, they finally get fed up with the _nothing _happening. They decide to leave. They’ve caught the glint of armor from a group of Stormcloaks wandering further down the road, and they haven’t missed how certain guards of the Goldenglow Estate linger on the one side of the settlement they don’t have a clear view on. For good measure, they utter the whisper-shout one last time, _“Laas yah nir.” _

A massive red shape overshadows the landwalker’s tiny crimson specks. The roar that follows alerts Zaammeytiid to what _it_ is before their mind registers it. _Dov. _

_“Beyn, _scorn for all of you,” they hiss under their breath. The _dov _person can hear the challenge in the incoming _dov_’s roar. It’s aggressive and confrontational; they know a fight will emerge if they don’t move.

_Why do I have to move? _They narrow their eyes and glare at the sky. They climb to their feet and grit their teeth. _I am allowed to kill dovah! I will tear them from their splendor! Bring them to my level! _

Except they can’t shout. There’s nothing physically keeping them from using their thu’um, but they know any shout beyond Aura Whisper will draw the attention of not only Goldenglow Estate guards, but that of Riften’s guards and Stormcloaks. They have zero desire to deal with anyone. The ample option is to find a place and hide before the _dov _arrives to start stealing lives and freezing the world over. They trace the treeline around them; the woods offer little cover from the air; the aerial view imposed by a true _dov _is a magnificent glimpse of all that goes on across the surface of Mundus. _I need a cave. Or perhaps—An underground burrow? Den? Think, Zaammeytiid. You are dov. Dovah are tactile! Deadly creatures! _

They decide booking it into the woods offers the best chance of success. They need to make sure Stormcloaks aren’t creeping up on them, and they don’t want to tip off Estate guards let alone Riften residents. They bolt across leaf-covered ground and run until their pathetic _joor _form is out of breath, panting and weary. They feel exhaustion for the first time in days and stop to lean against a tree for support. It doesn’t help; when they look up they freeze to see a shape circling overhead.

_“Laas,” _The _dov _in the air calls. It makes an immediate dive for them. They growl and throw themself back into the trees; they run and run as a dragon swoops in from overhead. When the great beast crashes into the earth and screeches at them, Zaammeytiid throws their hands up and backs away.

“We both know what I am capable of,” Zaammeytiid plays to their strengths, their possession of the Bend Will shout. It lingers on their lips. “You do not—”

_“Tahrodiis zaam mey tiid! Dir ko maar, dir ko rahgot,” _The dragon screeches in defiance. It’s either enraged or it’s smart; it shows no fear, as if it understands they cannot _simply _use their thu’um. When it lurches forward, it throws open a gaping jaw and Zaammeytiid freezes as a gale of howling winds shake the forest trees. The dragon exhales a cyclone when it shouts, _“Ven gaar nos!” _

Zaammeytiid throws their arms up to cover their face and growl when wind whips their side. The gusts and gales force them back and they are thrown from their feet to the ground as a cyclone of magic passes overhead and careens them with magical force. The air is sucked from their lungs and they struggle to so much stand let alone _breathe_ with the pressure of the thu’um on their chest. The thu’um passes and they retch and gasp for air. The dragon snaps forward and they roll to the side as one massive clawed hand tears through the air where their body just lay. They curse aloud and back up. A hand makes for them out of their peripheral; it grabs their hood and pulls them to their feet. They don’t ask questions; they run, and the run, and they _run. _They run until both they and their companion are out of breath huffing and puffing a storm. They run until the _dov _can no longer be heard overhead, no longer screeches roars of challenge, and no longer sends shouts across the Rift.

_Of course _it is Brynjolf. The thief looks weary but relieved when the two come to a stop by a tall, overbearing cliff. Trees dot every inch of ground around them and in the distance a stream can be heard trickling gently downhill.

Brynjolf looks less than pleased. “Don’t—Dragonborn—Kill?”

“Yes,” the _dov _person wheezes. They use a rising cliff to keep their body upright while their chest _hurts_. “But I am—I am _dov_—”

“—Don’t follow—Understand—Mara, help me—” The thief hisses and exhales sharply. He looks weary, annoyed, and full of unaired grievances. Zaammeytiid meets the mans eyes and he squints. “What?”

“_Mey, _you are full of shitty ideas. Do not follow a _dov _into wild lands.” Zaammeytiid shakes their head. They snort. “…Did you follow me, _joor?_”

“Divines, I need a drink.” Brynjolf ignores the question. He pats the satchels attached to the front of his leather chestpiece, as if a simple touch tells the unlabeled contents. Zaammeytiid watches him pause, unclasp one pocket, and fish out a tiny vial that is far from alcohol. It’s a potion, judging from Brynjolf’s disgusted retching after he drinks it. The man wipes his lips and looks over. “I don’t carry extra, lassie.”

They narrow their eyes. “Answer the question.”

“Aye, can’t let the Dragonborn run ‘round getting themself killed. Reputation would tank, and it’s been bad a long time.” Brynjolf pauses. “It irks me Mercer’s throwing this kind of job your way so quickly. You need time to settle. Theft has its lines of work, but you don’t break into a castle overnight. No need to thank me.”

“Like I would thank a _mey_,” Zaammeytiid grits their teeth. It’s embarrassing to consider they owe the _joor _for his actions. They wouldn’t have died, but the events of the night might have become all too aggravating what with Stormcloaks and Estate guards mucking around. “A _dov _does not like keeping debts. Not more than necessary,” they think back briefly to their Daedric Lord. “—Tell me, _joor_, what you want. I will not have this loom over my head.”

Granted—In the past they never cared. But _this_ universe is one blessed with their Lord’s madness. They cannot take the chance things are the same as before. Even if it were not the case, after the grief with Cicero they refuse to view relationships with _joorre _as anything but transactional; attachment only leads to mourning.

“…Honesty. Give me that. The Guild keeps droppin’ in numbers, we got to have a basis to build ourselves back up. No lies,” he crosses his arms and stares down at them. “You really the Dragonborn, lassie?”

_What a strange thing to ask for, joor. _The _dov _person averts their gaze to one side. “I am… uncertain of that. Myself. _I_ do not believe _I _am, but it appears all the _joorre _around me think differently.”

They can’t tell if he believes them or not. The man taps his chin in thought and waits until they look back at him before continuing, “Where you come from? You aren’t a Nord. Nor any Imperial I’ve ever seen. You got a certain look to you—”

“I come from the sky, the _lok_. The sky comes from a land whose shores are far, far from this continent,” They pause. “—But that was a very long time ago. _Niid dii tiid, _not in your time. You would not find my kin appealing, _joor_. We are a terrible bunch. Born for domination. We devour and subject others to our rule, then _grah_ amongst ourselves. Truly _pahlok_, arrogant. I am not different; I use magic of _et’Ada _to keep myself in line.”

If the man believed them before, he does not now. He stares at them with brows raised and lips parted into an uncertain frown. He strides to them and pulls their hood back. Even in the moonlight, their hair has a lustrous sheen every-bit the gleaming gold it is. He frowns, tucks a strand of their hair behind one ear, and gently run a hand down their rounded earlobe. “Look at me, lassie. A moment.”

They don’t want to but they find themself compelled. They gaze up at him and stiffen from the eye contact. It feels almost intimate to be stuck in the middle of the wilderness with a charming con artist. If they were _joor _they might have blushed from the tender, brief touches. But they are no _joor_, even if they are forced to take on _joor slen, _mortal flesh, as part of their punishment. The heat in their cheeks is result of embarrassment at the whole ordeal. The twisting feeling in their stomach is the nausea that arrives when they think of how a _joor _helped them.

“I can’t figure out your eyes. The hair, sure. Freckles? Of course. Even your short stature—Those have lands behind them, names, faces. But,” and Brynjolf leans down, stopping but a few inches from the _dov _person. His eyes look for everything hidden in their gaze. They want to fidget but they stand still and hold their breath. “—Your eyes are somethin’ strange. Like molten metal; you get lost in them. Oblivion, how’d you get them in such a state?”

“My master gave me these eyes.” They promised honesty and they don’t shy from the words. It’s almost worthwhile because the stare Brynjolf gives them as their words sink in is fascinating.

“What do you mean by _master_, lassie?” The man asks softly.

“The owner of my soul,” and Zaammeytiid straightens upright, more certain and confident in their words. They feel emotion slip from their tone and their voice revert to the proper, _orderly _composure they yearn to exhibit. “My Lord is a powerful one. I wronged him and now I must face the consequences.”

“Lassie, if you need help—Dealin' with this _master_—” He puts a hand on their shoulder.

It’s _weird. _They freeze and stare at him with wide eyes. They can’t stop their lips from parting nor their eyes from darkening as they stare at him. Their composure cracks; they feel color drain from their face. Their hand slowly moves to their shoulder and wraps around his. They mean to pull it off, and they do, but instead of dropping it they hold his hand tightly. He stares at them. Neither speak.

Faintly, they can recall a memory from their time spent as a conjoined soul with Kara. In that memory they recall Sanguine and Kara, and how the latter had a very similar thing happen. But when they think of the memory, it is clear Kara pines for the Daedra; she is a mess of confusion and complicated feelings resulting from trauma Zaammeytiid does not fully understand. Those feelings influence Kara deeply and keep her hesitant to pursue things with the Daedra. In that memory, the heat in Kara’s cheeks is practically their own. The shock in Kara’s mind reflects their own. The feeling of the other’s hand, gripping gently but firmly, makes them want to shiver.

“You can let go, lassie.” Brynjolf states. His voice sounds off. “Lassie—Your _hand.”_

What they know is the Nord isn’t a jester. He doesn’t wear a motley. He’s not laughter and grins and stories with terrible punchlines. He’s not ebony daggers or a killer’s bloodlust. He’s a man named Brynjolf who suckered them into the most ridiculous sales pitch of all time.

Their eyes narrow; they release his hand and turn away, thoughts askew and torn between those of a _jester, assassin, dii mey,_ and that of a man whose hair sometimes appears brown and sometimes appears ginger and whom remains a terrible con artist all the while. They grit their teeth in annoyance and march away, uttering as they go, “You are not worthy of the _lok, mey joor_.”

Though the walk to Riften will take many hours, it gives them some satisfaction to hear Brynjolf mutter behind them in bewilderment, “…Not worthy of the _sky?_”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love rune  
am very sad we don't get to learn more about him because it seems like there should've been a quest from his dialogue? about his name  
NEVER FEAR RUNE  
SELF-INDULGENT FANFICTION IS HERE


	6. say hi to linguine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's the third day the two have been there and kara can't find sahkriimar for once. she takes a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy warning for mention of domestic violence later on when kara's talking about earth

It’s good to have a break from Sahkriimar. She knows it is a challenge adjusting to order and structure of the Thieves Guild, but her stance is firm: Sahkriimar must be able to stand on their own. Kara turns her attention over the days following the two’s membership to doubling down on her own skills. The miss at the Stormcloak camp still stings. She focuses on training with the Thieves Guild’s master archer, Niruin, for the first two days. Aside from a brief stay in the training room the second day, Sahkriimar is not to be found, and Kara decides to offer them company come day three. She slips away from the bosmer, but not before he captures three hours of her time with tales of his grandiose background.

_He wants to open a brothel? _The former Dragonborn grimaces.

She has a lot of thoughts to share with her former _dov. _A major one being that the Greybeards atop the Throat of the World have yet to sound the call for the Dragonborn. Though she knows the scene normally isn’t triggered until a player slays their first dragon at Whiterun’s western watch tower, Kara understands the current universe possesses the madness of Sheogorath. Things are not identical. _But what if that’s not the case for this? What if the Greybeards haven’t called out to the Dragonborn because the Dragonborn hasn’t been the one shouting? Sahkriimar’s said they are a dov, not Dragonborn, so—Maybe…? _

It’s a hopeful thought on occasion. She wants so, _so _badly to be Dragonborn again. She desires it as much as she desires the Lord of Debauchery himself. She needs the power and strength that comes from being Dragonborn, from possessing the thu’um. She needs the title of Last Dragonborn on her shoulders and she needs the influence that nets the world in the hands of such a powerful individual. Not having it is like having a gap in her soul; part of her feels nonexistent and empty. But she doesn’t get to have a lengthy discussion on her hopes with Sahkriimar; she can’t find the _dov _person. As it turns out, they’ve been sent out on an assignment for the guildmaster just an hour before.

“Mercer Frey sent them to stake out a place? But they have a terrible temper! And I would know, I’ve been _close _to them a very long time,” the former Dragonborn crosses her arms. She’s grateful Brynjolf hasn’t left the cistern yet, or she would never know where the damn _dov _went. “If anything—Shouldn’t someone more reasonable like Rune go? He’s calm. Collective. Or me, even.”

“Ah, so that’s it, lass,” Brynjolf raises a brow and kneels to lace up boots. “You feel jealous?”

“A little. But the point stands.” Kara averts her gaze to the side. She’s grateful for her new attire, courtesy of the Thieves Guild itself, as the leather armor not only fits better but lacks the bloodstains found in the disgusting furs Sahkriimar got her on the way to Riften. The woman exhales and shakes her head. “You know, before we came here—They got into a lot of trouble. With Imperials, Thalmor, _and _Stormcloaks.”

“What kind of trouble?” The man sounds interested but he doesn’t look up.

“The kind that makes them want to find Sahkriimar and put them in a museum.”

“Would’ve liked to known that before talking to Mercer Frey,” Brynjolf finishes one boot and starts on the second. His gear looks improved from three days ago. Kara wonders if it’s new, but opts not to pry. “Anything else you feel like sharing, lass?”

“I’m looking for a Conjuration Spell Tome. To summon a Dremora,” the Dremora adds with a half-smile. She pauses and adds on, “No, really. Sahkriimar shouldn’t be out on their own. Not yet. They’re going to ruin any kind of information-gathering Mercer hopes to attain. And maybe get into trouble. Hopefully not with Thalmor.” Kara doesn’t miss the look in Brynjolf’s eyes when he straightens up. He’s a solid man, one she has a soft spot for, but at that moment her thoughts don’t involve swooning over rugged gingers in leather.

“Well. You can’t go out after them.” Brynjolf crosses his arms.

Kara’s brows furrow. Her hands tense. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t going to. Sahkriimar needs to do shit on their own. I just—I wanted to make sure you knew. As second head of the guild. So if _you _wanted to tell me to do something I’d have to go and do it."

“I’m not sending you out, lass. You’re still new to this. Though I find your fighting style a bit dark,” there’s a note of intrigue in his voice, a hint of curiosity, but Brynjolf is no cat. He doesn’t ask further on the subject; he clasps a belt around his waist with a scabbard attached to it. In it is an enchanted ebony blade; one Kara knows she doesn’t see him use unless he feels like things are serious. At her stare, he chuckles. “Worried about your friend that much, eh? Don’t. I’ve got them covered.”

“—You’re going out—Following them—By Mara, good luck dodging a fireball if they snap at you,” Kara grits her teeth. “I mean that—In a _slightly _joking manner.”

“I know how to stay on my toes,” Brynjolf states. “They’re the Dragonborn. Can’t chance them messing up so easily on. Seems like they aren’t a natural like yourself. Or me,” his grin is haphazardly cocky. “I’m _sure _things will be fine, lass. I'll get out there and keep an eye on 'em.”

“…why are _you_ justifying your actions?” The woman stiffens in confusion. 

“Save your questions for later, lass, they got a head start on me and I got to stay outta sight. Can’t let the Dragonborn know they’re being monitored. Like you said—No fireballs appreciated here.” Brynjolf brushes aside her questions. He pats her head, winks, and throws his hood up as he walks the outer walkway of the cistern and heads to the exit corridor. Kara stares at his back until he’s gone. She shakes her head, turns, and retreats to the training room for the rest of the day; she can put up with Niruin a little longer in exchange for his archery tips.

When Kara climbs into bed that evening, exhausted as one can be from listening to a bosmer babble about luxury, tits, and ass, she finds sleep quickly comes. She hopes for a dream as she drifts away; she yearns to see Sanguine again, if only temporary or only in her dreams. She’s not entirely past the fact he turned her into a Dremora, but that’s a bridge to cross when the two see each other again. Despite her longing, her desire, her need for him, no dream of the Myriad Realms comes. She still dreams; the dream is much more confusing than merry, and no mead or alto wine permeate its depths.

She sees a table. It is a lonely piece of furniture and the only furniture as far as her subconscious reaches. She seems nothing but the glow of white beneath her feet, like fresh-fallen snow without the searing cold that comes with it. She breathes and smells the lingering, mystifying aroma of _cheese_. That is when gears turn in her head and it clicks: her dream has been invaded by the presence of the Daedric Prince of Madness, Lord Sheogorath himself. The realization causes a chair to fall from the sky but land with a soft _clink _by the table. She gets the message loud and clear; she strides forward, pulls the chair out, and sits in it. It slides her closer to the table by itself.

Across the table is a man seated at an identical chair. She’s seen the man before, an Imperial hero with deep laugh lines in his face and hair thick as it is fine. His hair splays and curls at the ends. Bags hang under his eyes and he looks tired in spite of otherwise appearing physically healthy, with musculature and tone to his complexion and face. He’s dressed in a coronation robes that hold rich hues and colors patterned across the hem and sleeves. A beautiful amulet with a red stone as the centerpiece hangs off his neck. It’s all the result of her dream, because she knows the Amulet of Kings exists no longer. Martin Septim, bastard child and last living heir to the Septim dynasty, died at the climax of the Oblivion Crisis when he shattered the amulet and fought one of the Daedric Princes with Akatosh’s blessing.

“Why do you wear that, Sheogorath?” Kara leans forward and gestures to the prized necklace. “It’s a token of the past.”

“Why do you think of your husband? It’s a token of the past,” the voice echoes in a tone mocking her own—but then the man sighs, he slumps in his seat, his clothes meld and warp into a two-pieced suit, and he’s holding a small gray fox in his lap. He puts the fox on his head and peers at her. “Do you like it? The look? I thought it was _dashing_, my dear—But I need feedback to make this work!”

“Your name is erased from history.” Kara whispers. “Grey Fox.”

The fox dies with a scream and a hiss of two separate voices. It drops limp into the Daedric Prince’s lap and when he puts it back on his head it is no longer a corpse but transformed into a cowl befitting the legendary thief. The former Dragonborn exhales softly. Her mind spins at the displays of power, as small as they are they are still more than anything she can hope to understand as a simple _joor_, a mortal.

“I had to talk to you. It’s hard to speak, what with the universe the way it is. Lots of Daedra are unhappy! Pitiful! Enraged! I received an invoice in the mail last week and it had an entire list of charges I _know _I did not ring up at that inn,” Sheogorath throws his hands into the air and grimaces. “Sanguine’s been at it, it seems. Talking to others. Interacting. Being _Sanguine-y_. Like that one pasta—Rotini? Linguine? Linguine! He’s been _linguine _and it’s going to be a problem, dearest.”

“How in Oblivion do you know _Italian?_ How do you know that much about my world?” The woman feels fear, and she knows it radiates off her in waves, but she stares nonetheless and wills herself to hold eye contact with the Prince.

“I’m a food blogger in my spare time. Currently traveling France looking for the next big thing in cuisine experiences,” the Daedric Prince taps the table. A tiny, miniature Eiffel Tower emerges from the wooden surface. “You know, it’s called the city of _love_ but Paris was never _really _my thing—”

Kara tries to push the chair back from the table. Neither table nor chair budge. She growls and snaps her head at the Prince, beginning to grow irritated. It’s not the smartest thing she’s done but she can’t stop herself from hissing, _“What do you want?_”

“Your assistance,” Sheogorath’s tone returns to a serious, well-mannered nature. He twiddles his thumbs in his lap and clears his throat. “If you have a moment, Sloan, my dear, I know I can keep you here for an eternity and a half but there is _really _something that needs to be _addressed _and I can’t do it—”

“What in this universe could possibly stop a Daedra Prince from addressing it?” Kara crosses her arms and squints.

“Me! I am! I am unable to address me, Sloan, and I _don’t appreciate your attitude missy, _and I don’t enjoy the thought of ravishing you like certain Princes keep spitting about so kindly _give me your attention _and be reasonable!” Sheogorath slams the table when he stands but instead of the table shaking, it is the world under the two’s feet that rumbles with his frustration. He points a finger at Kara. “I’m trying to _fix me_, you see? I’m trying to _fix how I am! _I do not want to be what is me and me what I am but here we are talking words while Sanguine is linguine and the Daedric Princes start a new march!”

The sincerity in the Prince’s voice makes her pause. Her mouth parts to speak but she says nothing. She peers at him, raises a brow, and remains staring in suspicion for a long time. Sheogorath doesn’t hesitate to stare back; at one point he makes the table have eyes and it joins the staring extravaganza.

“…You’re asking me for help.” Kara hesitates. “To help you stop _you_?”

“Yes! By Akatosh, woman, do you not _see _what is right in front of you?!” The Daedric Prince jabs his own chest. He’s wearing the amulet again, the fabled Amulet of Kings. If it still existed, it would be worth a pretty penny.

Kara bites her lip. The woman hesitates. She shouldn’t extend a hint of trust to the Prince that is responsible for Paarthurnax shoving her off a mountain in her past life. She shouldn’t acknowledge his words, his wants, or his _needs_. She should be looking for a weapon, trying to smash his face in, or—Or—_What do I do? _

_“Please.”_ Sheogorath’s form flops unto the table face-down, legs dangling off the side opposite Kara.

She pauses. “…I don’t understand. I don’t think I believe you?”

He holds up a single finger and waves it around. His voice is muffled when he replies, “You shouldn’t! Good start! Smart girl!”

“…Why do you need me to help you? You’ve caused a lot of turmoil and grief, Sheogorath. A lot of suffering,” the former Dragonborn grits her teeth. In her head, names ring out of individuals she’s lost due to the universe reset: _Veezara, Cicero, Gabriella, the entire Brotherhood, and your actions contributed to the deaths of Filre, of Astrid’s obsession that led to the fall of Falkreath, that led to Alysoin being executed in the streets of Solitude and Leorn being crushed to death! _

Her anger is permeable, because it seeps from her like oozing, thick sweat. She shudders at the sensation of it taking shape and crawling away from her chair toward Sheogorath. He flicks the sweat like its no more than bugs and huffs. He sits up and lounges on the table. “You can’t say I did all that, it’s not _fair _to dismiss Astrid’s accountability! She made her choices. They were mad ones, but she made them all the same—”

“Do not read my mind, you pig,” Kara forces the chair back with a growl. She points a finger at the Daedric Prince. “You may have been a hero once, Grey Fox, but you are like the rest of the _et’Ada_ now! You are a disgrace to your own actions! Your own legacy!”

“—That’s why I need _help,_” Sheogorath’s plea is too mortal to ignore. “Please! I can’t rip me from me! I need me to not be me! I can’t address me! I’m too much for my own capabilities!”

The words are full of fear.

It makes her hesitate.

True, she has no _obligation _to help. He is more or less a “mad” individual, someone who is ailed by the Daedric power corrupting him. His head is not right, his mind is a mess, and he has taken actions that make her want to see him boiled alive and dead for eternity. _But Sahkriimar said it wasn’t by choice. You were forced into it. Made to wear the crown of madness by the Prince of Order, by Jyggalag. _

“I was,” the Daedric Prince, the fallen hero, slumps and melts back to his seat. His body takes shape there as a dejected man in prisoner rags, much like the kind she and Sahkriimar wore when the two woke up in Skyrim. Sheogorath holds up his hands where two manacles lay. “A token of the past. As you say. A criminal bound for death. I must never forget that. I must never… I will not forget. I must not forget. I want to hold on to that piece of me! It is _me, _truly me, and it is the man I was proud of! The Hero of Kvatch! Savior of Bruma! The Gray Fox and Listener of the Dark Brotherhood!”

“You were Listener?” Kara feels goosebumps rise on her skin. She stares and blinks. “You served—”

“Sithis. The Night Mother. By Sithis, I did, I swear on it—I did—I am—I was—A child of _darkness, _believe me,” he looks at her with glowing white eyes that remind her too much of Sahkriimar’s true form. In those eyes she finds sorrow. The Daedric Prince curses and looks away.

“You stopped the Oblivion Crisis.” Kara decides to weigh the man’s actions on a mental scale, ignoring the one Sheogorath puts on the table between them. “You also forced the universe into a paradoxical cycle of resets where people live lives full of predetermined fates and chaos.”

“That’s not true—”

“Oh, here we go,” Kara begins, her eyes rolling already. But when she looks the Gray Fox stares at her with a solemn, mournful gaze. “What?”

“I didn’t stop the Oblivion Crisis.” He speaks like his chest aches, his heart ensnared in glass, and his body ready to tear and rip and cry itself out of garbled misery. The Prince of Madness touches a hand to his chest; the _Amulet of Kings _appears and hangs off his neck. When Sheogorath runs a hand over the amulet, it hums.

A voice Kara’s never heard of rings out. It is that of a male, of a man perhaps mid-to-late thirties, who sounds nervous as he does regretful and who she can tell—on voice alone, on pitch and tone—is full of a longing toward the one who hears it.

“I do what I must do,” the voice intones gently, fearfully, full of grief and reassurances that will never come to pass. “I cannot… stay to rebuild Tamriel. That task falls to others. Farewell. You’ve been a good—A good _friend_—In the short time that I’ve known you. But now I must go. The dragon awaits.”

The amulet’s hum fades. Kara stares at the fallen Hero. She doesn’t understand. The words are _familiar _but out of touch with her knowledge of Skyrim lore, and wikipedia isn’t available to help in this universe.

“Who was that?” She asks softly.

“The true hero of the Oblivion Crisis,” Sheogorath’s voice is tense and strained and crumbling. “Martin Septim.”

“By Zeus.” Kara can’t think of words to say. A hand goes to her mouth and she shudders. She understands, now, why the Prince clings to the past. It is not only to preserve the remains of who he was before being turned into a Daedra, it is to hold on to the final memory of a man dear to them. She frowns, “You loved him.”

“I did. We did. All of us—All of me—All my _pieces,_” Sheogorath whistles faintly. “Everything in this Daedric Prince of Madness—All that was once _the Hero_—All of him did.”

The woman sits back in her seat. She exhales sharply. “You’re still guilty of your past actions. Let me make that clear.”

“I am. I know. I’m all of me, just as you are all of you. We are who we are, Sloan.” The fallen Hero meets her gaze with a nod, even as his cowl falls from his head and transforms back into a screeching, crying kit. He swats it away and it falls from his chair with a hiss.

“You want to stop yourself. You, as a Hero, want to stop you, as a Daedra,” Kara bites her lip. She waits for a nod of acknowledgement and then grimaces. “What is the rest of you thinking, Grey Fox? What does all of you want?”

“To see him again.” Sheogorath runs a hand through his hair, the small wisps of curls tumbling from the act. He huffs. “To see him again—And be—_Not us_—Not us that we disagree with!”

“You want help finding Martin Septim, who died two hundred years ago. And you want help not being you when you find him. What does this do with me? I don't think any of this is possible?”

“Your world,” Sheogorath whispers the words soft and slow, sensually. He inhales and exhales like it is the richest, purest aroma to grace the realm. “_Earth_ is a… A world of its own glory. A realm where these layers of the universe, the threads of fabric of time and space, where they _connect_ and _become_ thanks to your world_. _Earth is the start of it all. Earth creates _everything _around us. Is it any surprise to find _Skyrim _probes Earthen culture as, what you call it, a _‘video game?’” _

“Earth is the be-all, end-all. That doesn’t spell good things. It’s not a paradise—” Kara bites her lip.

“It may not be! But it is _Earth! _It is what spurned the Everything to begin! It wrote the rules of primordial nothingness! It made _Anu_ and _Padomey_—It forced them to Be! Order! Chaos! Two opposites at odds with the other in one tangent, inter-existential orbit! From it came _Aurbis, _the world! _Mundus! The Void! Sithis! Dread father! Aetherius, _the heavens! Earth thought of it and _thus it was!” _Sheogorath is on his feet by this point, a force of two-hued suit and rants and raves befitting his sphere of influence. He pulls Kara from her chair, hauls her to her feet on the table, and proclaims. “Earth can bestow _anything!_ A force beyond the primordial gods! Beyond order! Chaos! It can—"

“Calm down,” Kara holds her hands up. “This is—This is a lot.”

“—It can bring Martin _back,_” and the goal becomes clear, what it is Sheogorath seeks. All of him yearns for the same thing, but part is spurned by Daedric corruption. He finds the plan in Earth, in _her _home, in a world where her husband left her bleeding, dead corpse on the floor of their apartment after bashing her head in. Sheogorath’s eyes make her stiffen and she shoves him away even as he continues, “That’s what I’m doing! I am finding the consumer! The right one! To go to Earth, to trade places! I am me because I am who I am, Sloan! I can force a new writing of rules—I can make sure Martin’s safe!”

“Is that what you really want, Grey Fox?” She grits her teeth. “Or is that what _Sheogorath _wants, Prince of Madness?”

“No,” the Daedric Prince falls to his knees. The table no longer exists; it is simple the glowing white space around them. Sheogorath shakes his head. “No, no, no. I want it, but I do not want it. I am me but you _know _I do not agree with myself! I want to stop myself! My me’s actions before I am me and I am on Earth! I _need _help, Sloan! Please! Martin would never forgive me if I took such desperate actions!”

“I don’t know how to help you.” Kara states softly. “I would need to ask others for their input. That means I need to see Sanguine. Or—Linguine, if you insist on calling him that.”

“He will dissuade you, Sloan, he cares too much,” the Hero looks up at her. He’s miserable, defeated, but his eyes are full of sincerity to his words. “He weakened himself to save you. He knew you wanted to live. Even if it meant you might hate him—You might never forgive him for stealing the chance to join our Dread Father in the Void—He broke his power in two. He barely befits the title of _Prince _anymore. And he did that—For you, my dear. He’s a, as you and my Champion put it, a _mey_.”

“A fool.” Kara’s face pales, as much as a Dremora face can pale. She sighs. “I still need to see him. I don’t know what being a Daedra entails, Hero, but—I need _a _Daedra’s help. I need a Daedra’s guidance. Especially if I have half of Sanguine’s power in my fingertips; I don’t want to misuse it. I’m not budging on this; if you want my help then help me figure out how to contact Sanguine.”

“The rest of me won’t agree. If it knows,” Sheogorath’s voice dips into a low tone and his hands clench to fists. “It will erase you from history, Grey Kit. It will erase the rest of me. I will erase me! Me being erased by me… My dear, it is not a good look for either of us!”

“Let me make one thing clear, Sheogorath. Hero. Grey Fox.” Kara stares the god down and eyes him with furrowed brows and a taut frown. “You are still guilty for your actions. And one day you need to address them. But in my world, on _Earth, _there are people who aren’t _magically compelled _to act like this—But they're people whose brains are different than others, _just because _biology is fucking _weird_ sometimes. Sometimes those people think different than how people typically think. They get treated like shit a lot. I don't agree with it. So, I’m going to help you because you are kinda like them. Heaven knows I’ve had some bad times where I wished I had someone to help me... But it’s not because we’re _buddies, _and I’m not your _dear _or _dearest_, and I _despise_ you with every ounce of my soul for the universe you ripped from me, for the ones I lost! But you need help. You’re asking for help. So…”

She holds out a hand.

The Gray Fox stares at her, not fully understanding yet completely lost in soaking in the words.

“I’ll help you. I don’t know how yet. But I will.” Kara tilts her head to one side. “And don’t call me that name. I’m Kara now. That life is dead; Sloan was murdered. Okay?”

She wakes up before the Prince shakes her hand, but she knows the actions and words have hopefully been heard nonetheless. She sits up in her bunk, in the cistern of the Thieves Guild, and grimaces at the smell of sewage and seafood that dominates the grounds. The woman makes to rise—it feels like morning—but stops when something on the end of her bed catches her eye. It’s a purple tome, with the emblem of the school of conjuration magic on the front. Her lips curl into a smile as she flips it open. More specifically, it is a _Summon Dremora_ tome, the one needed to relearn the spell. A note is inscribed on the first page; the ink smells fresh yet is dry to the touch. She laughs at the elegant calligraphy.

_Say hi to Linguine for me. -Sheo._


	7. the black door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a conversation in the riften marketplace goes awry and now they might be out a guild.

Mercer chews them out in front of Brynjolf for a half hour on the two’s return. In their eyes all he says is incessant, spineless words. Something about taking notes next time? They don’t bother to pay attention more than necessary. It’s a huge waste of time given no one told them to take notes in the first place. They couldn’t have _possibly _known, yet they should have. Mercer’s stern, irritated face pisses them off any time they look at him; they can’t do a thing but stand in silence, nod, and mumble ‘yes, sir!’ to his words because of the bloody rules of the Guild. The rules are irrelevant! Obnoxious! It seems like everything they’ve been doing in the guild’s become a game they and Mercer play: a battle of wills, wits, and passive aggressiveness which can only build from here.

“Lassie.” Brynjolf calls for them after Mercer finally sends the two away, but they’re too disgruntled and annoyed and—_in control, control, control—_to respond.

If they had their way, there would be no _Mercer Frey_ in the guild. They could _gal hoh _him into the next era! Even Kara would do a better job. By Oblivion, even _Veezara _or _Gabriella _from the past universe cycle would be worthy of more respect. Those two have reason to detest them; the only thing they’ve done wrong with Mercer Frey is show up drunk to the two’s first meeting, and it was _only _one drink. Zaammeytiid can scarcely reel their mind back to focus when a hand reaches from a corridor and pulls them out the main cistern. They look up, half-expecting to see Brynjolf, but frown when Kara’s brown-red eyes peer at them.

“You look distracted,” Kara assesses their state of mind in a second and releases them. They quickly fix their hood over their head and stare silently at her. The woman doesn’t look worse for wear without them around; if anything, Kara is in a pleasant mood. She has an amused smile on her face and a purple tome of some kind under one arm. The woman tilts her head to one side. “If it’s for the reason I’m thinking of—I’m sorry. But we have to talk. Privately, Sahkriimar.”

“Ragged Flagon?” Zaammeytiid peeks back into the main cistern, then glances up and down the corridor. Kara appears to have come straight from the bunk halls. The _dov _person snorts. “Did you come here from bed? Your hair’s a mess—”

“Actually, I was reading—Excuse me? My hair is perfect,” Kara takes their wrist and pulls them not to the puzzle door that leads to the bar cistern, but instead back to the bunk halls. There’s no one there; not surprising given how long it took them and Brynjolf to hike all the way back to Riften without getting the attention of a damn dragon. The dragon’s odd behavior still reeks in their mind, but a new topic takes over when Kara sits them on a bed and takes a seat next to them.

“What kind of tome?” Zaammeytiid eyes the purple book in her lap. “It’s a spell tome, isn’t it? _Mey, _Kara, we are supposed to be practicing sneaky things. That is not a lockpick. Or a bow.”

“Shush.” Kara pulls her legs up on the bed and sits cross-legged. Zaammeytiid finds the image almost endearing; the thirty-one-year-old woman looks incredibly comfortable and not at all about to drop bombshells when Kara goes on to say, “…I ran into your Master.”

“Lord Sheogorath—" Zaammeytiid’s face drains of color. They feel their fists clench. They stare at the former Dragonborn and look for the slightest hint of _anything_. “Is he here now? Is my Lord here? Kara. Kara. Kara, if Lord Sheogorath is present—"

“Calm, calm, c’mon, I wouldn’t lead him to you on purpose. On accident? Yeah, maybe,” Kara’s lighthearted remark makes the _dov _person stare. “Joking! Joking! Sorry, yesterday evening I spent most of my time listening to Niruin chat up a storm with Rune. Rune’s humor is rubbing off on me.”

“_Mey, niid dovahkiin. _Do not startle me like that.” Zaammeytiid grits their teeth.

Kara laughs. It’s a sweet sound, light and merry. “—I won’t again, promise—Maybe. If you behave,” the woman huffs the latter sentence. She crosses her arms and squints. “I’m not sure how much I should tell you, actually. Now that I consider it. How do I know what I tell Sheogorath’s champion doesn’t go straight to Sheogorath himself? This could all be a trick, a ploy on his end to gain my trust. Or to strike madness into me—"

“My Lord cannot impose madness on you. You have half of Sanguine’s _mul_.” Zaammeytiid catches their voice drifting back into the orderly, composed stature their pact blesses them with. They tilt their head to one side. “Are you sure it was him, _niid dovahkiin? Et’Ada _are tricky _zii_. Sneaky. Like a thief, but with grotesque godly _mul. _Strength.”

“—Which brings me to my next point,” Kara sets her hands in her lap. The way her eyes flicker around the empty bunk hall makes the _dov _person suspicious. “—I’ve agreed to help him.”

“Kara.”

“Don’t take it the wrong way—I’m not a _Champion _of his or anything, Sahkriimar—But—I don’t think he’s _fully _him,” the former Dragonborn looks to the side. She bites her lip. The hesitancy dancing across her eyes is heavy. “We know who he supposedly was. The Hero of Kvatch, Savior of Bruma, all of those titles and more. But—_But_—He’s a Daedra now. A Daedric Prince. A God. I don’t know what that does to a mortal mind. Given how Sheogorath’s sphere of power normally operates, it’s—It’s safe to say he’s magically compelled to act in certain ways. He needs help controlling himself. He asked for help, and I said yes.”

“Kara, you should never speak with my Lord willingly. His words are dangerous.” Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow. They stand, if only to be tall enough to look down at her. “Lord Sheogorath was once a hero, _vahzen. _True. But this is a cycle of _punishment _for _me_. You believe Lord Sheogorath, Hero of Kvatch, is capable of redemption in a universe made to serve as my _consequence?_”

The former Dragonborn exhales sharply. “_I don’t know_ if I believe that. I don’t know what I believe. All of this is complex, and it gives me a headache. Just talking about it seems unreal. Though, I guess if you asked me when I was twenty-nine, I would have thought an actual living, breathing world of _Skyrim _was a joke. I didn’t think any of this could be real. It took me a long time to accept it.”

“_Beyn. _I have no words for you. _Mey, _Kara. Foolish Kara.”

“In my world—Humans fight a lot, we do. But some of us try to help each other. That’s… That’s why I sometimes like Earth. Not everything is a crack pot of shit,” the former Dragonborn shakes her head. She stands and peers down—an entire eight-and-a-half inches—at Zaammeytiid. Her hands go to the _dov_ person’s shoulders. “I’d like to think—If Sheogorath was just a human in my world—That I would be willing to help him there, too. Not turn him away. Get him the support he needs, the _resources_—"

“This is not _your _world, Kara! This is _Mundus! _Not _Earth! Beyn, dovahkiin, beyn! Mey zii yah ausviir? _You will find only death and suffering by thinking that way; Mundus’ sky is nothing compared to Earth!” Zaammeytiid grits their teeth. “My Lord is an _et’Ada, _god! A god! He is no _joor_!”

“Neither am I. I have to accept that,” Kara states softly. Her eyes grow cold and hard on their form. “Your master told me I have half of Sanguine’s power. I think he was telling the truth, given how many times you've been rattling off the same sentiment. But I’m not doing anything until I speak with Sanguine and figure out where _we _stand. Then I can address the _Sheogorath _problem.”

“Kara,” The voice that interrupts is not Kara’s, nor Zaammeytiid’s, nor Mercer’s or Brynjolf’s. It is that of a platinum-blond woman who looks ready to stab the next person to look at her the wrong way. Vex’s eyes lock on Kara’s form and ignore Zaammeytiid wholeheartedly. “You’re with me; we have a job.”

“We’ll talk more later. Don’t murder our guild members,” Kara pats Zaammeytiid’s head and they swat her hands away, annoyed. As the woman leaves with Vex, Zaammeytiid can catch a brief look at the two’s conversation. The name _Goldenglow _makes them stare, but they opt not to press on the matter.

_Kara spoke to my Lord. My Lord did not seek me out. _It’s both relieving and a nuisance they have to continue living as a ground-locked shrimp. They hate how tiny they are compared to every other adult in Skyrim. They despise how people keep _patting their head. _They want to rip through flesh, tear through skulls! Pull spines from chords, crack ribs and fillet stomachs! But no. They are orderly. They have Order. They did not sell their soul to a Daedra Lord just to snap and go raze a village to the ground, as tempting as it is.

What they desperately need is a _break. _They decide to snoop through dressers of other bunks, fish out a loose blouse and clean slacks, and change into civilian clothes. They braid their hair and wrap it clockwise into a circular bun. They borrow shoes a size too big from Rune’s chest—he won’t mind, probably, just borrowing after all—and lace them quickly. It’s a little awkward, but they don’t look _too _out of place. They long for a pool of water to reflect in, to see what they look like, but there is nothing. They ignore the glance Sapphire gives them when they pass her on the way to the exit corridor. It’s refreshing to see the sun overhead when they climb out of the guild’s mausoleum entrance. Their eyes fall on gorgeous, purple-starred flowers planted across the mausoleum cemetery. They leave the plants alone; such life is respected until their temper flares again.

The marketplace calls to them. They keep mostly to the shade and shadows, avoiding the sunlight that would make their hair resemble a gold ingot. Riften’s circular plaza buzzes with activity. Though the vendors give them sneers, their cold gaze quickly shuts them up. It doesn’t go unnoticed that the guards no longer seem to _care_. Zaammeytiid’s brows furrow. _Is it membership of the Thieves Guild? Does that give me protection? But—Weren’t they upset at Brynjolf? Why don’t they care now? _

“Paid ‘em off, guards are easily bought when a client wants your attention,” The voice comes not from behind them but a few yards away, where none other than world’s worst salesman stands at his stall. Brynjolf looks hilarious pitted in ghoulish red-orange clothes, the attire is _far _too ornate for a man of his height. Though he offers a friendly smile, the exhaustion in his eyes is hard to miss. “Count your blessings, lassie. If the Black-Briars didn’t want _you_ free there’d be a lot more trouble on your heels on the surface.”

They stride over to the man and find a place in the shadows of his stall to hide in. Zaammeytiid’s brows quirk. They’re curious, for better and for worse. “The Black-Briars more of you _joorre?_”

“Maven Black-Briar, specifically. Careful what you call ‘em, lassie. She’s the one running the show across Riften, and a couple other provinces to boot.” Brynjolf turns back to the front, eying up any adventurer that drifts too close by. After the third possible victim turns tail and shuffles off, Zaammeytiid can’t help but thinking he does it on purpose.

“…I’ll do my best to _dahmaan._”

“What?” Brynjolf snorts, but he doesn’t look back.

“Remember. It means ‘remember’ in the _dov_ tongue.” Zaammeytiid translates with a huff. They cross their arms and stare at the man’s back. “I am not merely _rahgot. _That means ‘anger,’ so you know.”

“Eh,” the Nord shrugs in place. “Your temper’s got a bite. Can you blame the guild if we think of you like that, lassie?”

“…Does everyone think of me like that? _Beyn._” The _dov _person frowns. Something about the thought is unsettling, pleasing, and highly addictive all wrapped in one mish-mash of _dov _and _joor _feelings. “Do you think of me like that, _joor?” _

“Lassie, I don’t know _what _to think of you most of the time.” The response is _pure _diplomacy, nothing but the finest of verbal combat to avoid giving an actual answer. Zaammeytiid continues to stare at Brynjolf’s back, eying the ugly fabric of his robes with growing indignation. “…But,” and the delayed sentence makes them jump as they catch Brynjolf look over his shoulder and give them a strange look. “I don’t _dislike _you. Granted, you’ve only been around for, what is it? Four days now? That might change if you keep snappin’ at people.”

“A _dov_’s _rahgot_ is innate.”

“I have no idea what that means.” Brynjolf’s grin is solid and confident. He faces forward and calls back. “You say a lot of things no one gets. Doesn’t mean we aren’t listening. Remember that. _Dahmaan.” _

“Make sure not to shout it. You will tear your lungs from your throat and _aus _on your own blood, _suffer_. It is death.” Zaammeytiid’s warning isn’t as harsh as they want, but it suffices. They grimace. “Death comes in many forms for _joorre _that mess with _dov_.”

“Death comes to everyone anyways. Some find it faster, lassie, but it’s life’s greatest gift.”

“…The Black Door.” Zaammeytiid stiffens and backs away. They remember. They know. They are privy to the password required to access Falkreath’s sanctuary. They know _death_ is the answer to what is life’s greatest gift. They know. They know. Their eyes widen and their face pales. They don’t care about stepping into the sunlight, because it is irrelevant when they’re next to a member of the _Dark Brotherhood. _They should have known; Brynjolf wears far too many ghoulish robes to not be a child of darkness. The Brotherhood has become involved; they have to put a stop to it before things get out of hand, before they are forced to confront this universe’s Cicero. They hiss. “_Mey! _You think I don’t know?!”

Some vendors glance in their direction. They don’t care. Brynjolf gives them a curious look that’s stuck halfway between confused and concerned. “What are you talking about?”

_“Gol hah, _Brynjolf.” The _dov _person breathes the words in a growl. They don’t hesitate to march the man out of Riften, repeating the shout as necessary. Whoever wants to stare or look or question the duo can, their mind is made up. They know from experience, from past resets and cycles, one _never _takes a chance with members of the Dark Brotherhood. The faction is too powerful and influential even in their current state at Falkreath.

They take the man out of Riften and into the wilderness. He’s easy to disarm; they gain two enchanted steel daggers, an enchanted ebony shortsword, and a regular ebony dagger from the man’s concealed pockets and scabbards. Wearing an ugly robe hides a _lot _and when he’s commanded to dump out all his pockets, it reveals just how much gold the man can pickpocket. He’s a natural at it; the man has at least a hundred gold coins across his pockets and another tiny vial strapped to the waistband of breeches he wears beneath the attire. He’s resourceful; the robes are padded on the inside, but they go over a light leather uniform that hugs his form beneath.

Surprisingly, no shrouded suit.

They don’t know what to do with him. They want to kill him, but something feels off about it. Perhaps it is the emptiness of his eyes and lack of usual twinkles when he looks at them, or the fact his face appears empty and submissive as per the shout’s magic. They dislike it; they need to question him first. They stare at him, having since vanquished the afternoon hours by wandering around into a forest north of Riften. They have no leather, no rope, nothing to help bind his wrists or tie him to a tree. They pause mid-thought and groan audibly when it dawns on them: their _gol hah _shout is just as capable of forcing someone to speak truth as it is commanding them to act.

“Brynjolf. _Gol hah._” They stride up to him and stare at the Nord. He looks unlike-him, so stiff and lacking compared to the charm of his smile. “You will answer my questions honestly. Is there Dark Brotherhood in Riften?”

“Yes,” comes the first reply, as distant and stall as rotting _slen_.

“Do you have contract to kill or otherwise kidnap, imprison, or torture Kara or myself? Or a _Dragonborn?_” They try to cover all bases in their choice of words.

“No.”

They frown. Were they wrong? But how else can someone _know _the password unless they are a member? There are so few Dark Brotherhood members left, with the fall of two sanctuaries over the past decades, it is hard to find a _former _Dark Brotherhood member let alone—_Delvin Mallory. _The name makes them screech and stomp their feet in aggravation. _I am the mey! Mey, mey, mey! _

“Are you a member of the Dark Brotherhood, Brynjolf?” They hiss the words. _Say yes. _

“No,” the answer is truthful, for it must be under Bend Will.

They’ve broken Mercer’s rules. Brynjolf will be aware he was shouted. They _could gal hoh _him into submission and force him to forget, but the amount of time passed since the initial shout in Riften and the shouts now makes them hesitate. They bite their lip and rub their chin. _Surely it will be noticed if he goes missing. Shows up dead. Beyn._

They decide to throw the weapons into a lake, save for the ebony dagger which they add to their own collection. They keep Brynjolf in his robes; the man will surely be mortified if he regains control of himself with no clothes on. Zaammeytiid sits on a rock and grimaces; the two of them are lucky Riften isn’t neck-deep in Winterhold weather, or they might freeze to death. The Rift has occasional pools of warm deep-springs water, and when night falls they camp on the bank of one. They don’t sleep; they have to constantly reiterate the _gol hah _shout lest it wears off.

“I’m the fool.” They hold their head in their hands and sigh. “_Mey, _Zaammeytiid. You foolish _dov_. Kara will be displeased. You are too rash, too impulsive. Even with the blessing of a Daedra.” They curse, pick up a pebble, and throw it into the water. “I cannot overcome my innate nature. Perhaps you were right, Paarthurnax. Our thu’um must be tamed by meditation, not sheer _mul_ alone.”

“_Mul.” _Brynjolf’s voice makes them jump and spin on their heels. They find him three yards out, hands up. Zaammeytiid makes to unsheathe a dagger anyways. Their eyes narrow at him as his voice calmly goes on. “What does it mean, lassie?”

_“Strength.”_ The _dov _growls.

“Well, you have a lot more of it than I thought,” the man’s voice remains calm, collected, _orderly. _He doesn’t step forward, a fact they’re grateful for; if Brynjolf so much tries to move they might not be able to restrain themself from instinctively shouting again. “Guess I should’ve picked that up when you picked me up, eh?”

A reference to the terrible snow elf stunt. Zaammeytiid exhales sharply. They hate the fact they have to look up to hold eye contain. The uneven spring bank is useless even when they possess higher ground. “Don’t move.”

“I’m not the one tryin’ anything foolish, lassie,” their guild mate is sassy when he wants to be, but the words still feel _friendly_, _fun_, and it throws Zaammeytiid’s mind off. “You’re the one running ‘round shouting me to death.”

“If I wanted you dead I would order you to kneel, _joor, _and slit your throat on the spot,” the _dov _person states coldly. “I am not merciful.”

“So! You don’t want me dead. Glad we think the same. Was beginning to suspect you took me the wrong way.” Brynjolf whistles softly. “Anything else you care to mention? This is practically a date, and I’m not much for talking—"

They make sure to draw both ebony blades. The daggers feel _so _right in their palms, utterly pristine and made for their grasp. They exhale sharply and eye the unarmed Nord. “Brynjolf,” the first word comes out tense and strained. “I made a _mistake _shouting you.”

He blinks. He doesn’t believe them.

“Brynjolf,” the _dov _person repeats with as much seriousness they can muster. “I _shouldn’t _have _shouted _you, _joor_.”

“No, no, it really wasn’t pleasant. Would’ve preferred we skip all this.” The Nord snorts.

_How do I display trust? How do I show remorse? This was a mistake! Mey dov! Dii beyn! _They slowly—and they can tell every muscle of Brynjolf’s is as tense as they are—lower their daggers. They take a breath. “I am not good at _apologies_, _joor,_ but I am trying to say—” Their hands fall to their side. They refuse to grovel, but they let their eyes show a softness normally reserved for a man in motley. “Sorry.”

Under the same tense stare, they set both daggers on the ground, straighten upright, and move backward. Brynjolf doesn’t move to pick them up even after they’re five yards from them. His eyes contain many emotions and none they successfully read. His frown is thin and wry. It doesn’t fit him; they don’t like how they’ve begun noticing what _does _fit him. “…Lassie. You know the rules of the guild. Heard it from Mercer himself, if his door could be any thinner. You broke the rules.”

“I know, _mey, _I know! I’m not—” _This is a cycle for my punishment. A reset made to bring me to the ground and beg for forgiveness at my Lord’s table. _They grit their teeth and bow their head. Their eyes water; the _krosis _at the events and their own inabilities to show more mindfulness wears on them in the form of _joor _sorrow. “…I know. I won’t return to the guild. _Mey, _I know what I am. Fool.”

Brynjolf’s steps indicate he’s obtained the two ebony blades. The tall man’s stance remains rigid but he doesn’t leap to attack them. “Where you plan to go, lassie? You can’t stay. Mercer’ll know.”

“I don’t have a home, _joor. _I am _Zaam mey tiid._” The _dov _person sighs. “My master condemned me to the ground as punishment.”

“Your name isn’t Sahkriimar?” It’s a strange thing to get caught up on. Zaammeytiid wipes their eyes and shakes their head. They don’t dare look up, even when Brynjolf intones. “You’ve a liar, _Zaammeytiid_. No offense, lassie, but I ask for honesty. Can’t even provide that, can you?”

“It’s _mey _to trust a _dov_.” Zaammeytiid states. “There were other reasons at the time for lying.”

“Like what?” It’s not demanding to know, but the offer is there. They meet Brynjolf’s gaze; they find him a foot away and are forced to acknowledge he’s sneakier than he looks. His brown eyes are locked on them, focused.

“I do not agree with the Stormcloak’s line of work. Their philosophy. Not even a _dov _can stand it,” they grimace and shake their head. “They believe I am Dragonborn. But I am not; I am _dov_. A _dov _trapped in _joor slen, _mortal flesh. But they want me to be Dragonborn. They want me to be _dovahkiin_. They want me to fight the Empire. I loathe those armored freaks as much as I do Stormcloaks. _Beyn, _scorn for them all.” 

“That’s all?” Brynjolf parts his lips.

“Kara and I stole two horses and set their camp ablaze.” _That _thought makes them smile briefly before they return to staring blankly at him. “That is not all.”

“Thalmor?" And the Nord recites the magic word that makes Zaammeytiid stiffen and step back. The response isn’t what he anticipates, because both brows rise in surprise at the audible fear and anger. “Lassie—Lassie! Calm, calm, I’m not throwing you to the elves—”

“They will have more than my head on a plate if they find me—The Third Aldmeri Dominion deserve _aus, aus, aus,_” Zaammeytiid snarls. Their fists clench tightly and they resist roaring and screeching at the thought. “They took a year from us! I almost lost Kara to those wretched _joorre!” _

It feels good to be angry at the elves. It’s a topic appropriate for venting out the frustration, rage, and heartache that lingers from the time spent imprisoned. Sometimes they can handle the thought with only rage, fury, and confidence. Sometimes their ego spears it to the ground. Sometimes the fear that they almost _failed _to subdue Ondolemar keeps them alert and tense to all life around them in hushed whispers of _laas. _If the high elf had worn anything to resist the poisons—That would have been it, a lost cause and forever forced to serve the Third Aldmeri Dominion as their personal tool and trophy.

They don’t realize in the harsh words, the shuddered breaths, and spiraling thoughts that their eyes have become full of disgusting mortal tears. When they fall, they streak down their cheeks and leave burning trails of shame. The _dov _person growls and wipes their eyes. They turn away from Brynjolf and hiss. “I will _never_ let them lay a hand on _dii dovahkiin! _I will _never _let them touch Kara again! I won’t—" They talk like the mess they are, cracked and sharp and jagged underneath a hard carapace. They yearn to fly into the heavens and hide in the wind, where only the gales, the sun, and the stars can touch the scales of their true body.

This is their punishment. A cycle befitting their disobedience. They tried to reject Lord Sheogorath’s authority over their soul, and he punished them appropriately. They are not worthy of the sky.

Arms wrap around their shoulders from behind and they still. The contact feels strange and weird and alien and very, _very _different than any word that comes to mind. The closest thing they find to describe it is a bashful _nice_. It feels nice. It’s soothing.

“This got out of hand, lassie,” Brynjolf’s voice so close is a danger in of itself, one they weren’t aware of. "I'd like to put it behind us. You've been growin' on me. Must be the eyes."

Zaammeytiid's stomach flips. "...right. Eyes."

“For the record, I’m not Brotherhood. Too much death and too little coin to tempt me.”

“The death’s the best part, the taking of _laas_.” Zaammeytiid retorts.

“You one of them?” Brynjolf lets go and draws back. It’s not something they agree with, but they hold their tongue and keep thoughts under wraps. The man spins them around to face him. He’s far taller up close than he is when standing feet away. “You mentioned the Black Door. Delvin’s told me of it in the past.”

“You could say I was _part _of it once,” the _dov _person shuts their eyes. “_Niid dii tiid. _Not this time, _joor_. I do not want to do anything with them now. They are… bad memories. Too much grief. I lost the only _joor _worthy of the sky.”

“What do that mean? You said it before—Yesterday, in fact. Something about… not being worthy of the sky?” Brynjolf crosses his arms. His eyes squint. He’s watching them, wary, but things no longer feel tense and hostile between the two.

“It means… How could I describe it to a _joor? _To be equal, yes,” Zaammeytiid states quietly. “To be worthy of the sky—The greatest honor one can receive from a _dov. _To be seen as worthy… Worthy enough to be part of _joorre_ heavens.”

“Eh,” he doesn’t sound impressed by the answer. The man scratches his cheek and shrugs. “No offense, lassie—I don’t get it. Why you’d said it?”

“It is sometimes used in _dovah _courting rites. I use it in reference to those practices.” They don’t catch on to what they say until the words are already out there. They stiffen and jab a finger at the tall, tall, _tall _man. “I am not explaining this to another _joor._ Do not take it out of context!"

“No, no,” and he’s got a smile on his face, already out of range for their growls of warning. “I got it now. Thanks, lassie. Now,” Brynjolf pats their head. They find the heat in their cheeks too distracting to bother being annoyed. The Nord looks around and pauses. “You have any idea how to get back to Riften? This looks far out, even for me.”

“I can call a _dov _to fly us there.” Zaammeytiid offers. Talking about normal things like being lost in the wilderness is preferential to thinking about how badly their face burns. “But that attracts attention. Not that it matters for you.” They step forward and suck in a breath, preparing their lungs to exhale the icy gale of Snow-Hunter-Wing’s name, but Brynjolf pats their head.

“It does matter to me. You’re a member of the guild. Thieves-in-arms, eh?” He grins crookedly.

They move his hand off their head. They make sure to release it this time. Their eyes lock unto his face and they furrow their brows when he doesn’t say anything. “—I will not be a member much longer. I broke Mercer Frey’s _rules.” _The bitterness is evident.

Brynjolf nods. “Aye, you did. But this’ll remain between us, lassie. I’ll talk to Mercer. You’ll be fine. Can’t be losing our Dragonborn less than a week after getting ‘em, eh?”

Zaammeytiid’s eyes widen. They can’t manage words, so they nod instead. When he starts to gather tinder for an overnight fire, they pull heavy logs over and offer to breathe fire on them. When Brynjolf looks for his ebony shortsword, they gaze apologetically at his feet. When he offers to take watch so they can sleep, they dismiss him and perch on a rock to look out over the wild lands of Skyrim. Though the night isn’t what they thought it would be, they’re at peace with how it’s gone. Zaammeytiid feels different, like something has changed in them. They can’t put their finger on it but they don’t find the sleeping Nord’s snores as obnoxious as they could be.


	8. zu’u lost daal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara and vex carry out a job on goldenglow estate. there's a couple old faces to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello  
so like there's a scene with an altmer elf  
THERES NOT RAPE  
but some of the scene can be interpeted as alluding to it   
also there's physical torture in the latter half 
> 
> pls read with care i luv u all

“We’re hitting Goldenglow Estate tonight.” Vex’s words are cold and snappy as the woman marches her out of the cistern via the guild’s secret exit. The mausoleum coffin grinds against rock and metal when she pulls the chain mechanism and opens it. Vex doesn’t give her a hand walking out of the mausoleum or the graveyard, even when Kara trips on her own feet.

The Imperial thief is still mad at the former Dragonborn. Kara doesn’t blame her; Sahkriimar’s drunken remark at the Flagon still burns in utter embarrassment in her chest, even though Sahkriimar was the one to say it. She knows the _dov _person likely didn’t intend it that way, but she feels frustrated all the while. The fact Vex pulled her out of the two’s first real chance to talk and address things annoys Kara to no end. But she gets over it; the two have a job to do and she wants Vex to have reason to see her as _thief _and not _disgusting bitch. _All personal feelings aside, Kara holds a large soft spot for the woman’s character. Vex is one of her favorites, or at least was back when _Skyrim_ was a _video game_.

Part of the problem lays in Kara’s favorite characters. She wearily acknowledges it in her mind: she enjoys the sassy, rude, loud-mouthed snarky types like Sanguine and Vex. The flamboyant, eccentric types like Cicero also top her list. In _Skyrim _the video game, those characters were amusing, interesting, and entertaining. In the world of Skyrim that encompasses her reality, those personalities clash with her own. If she was not fond of Sanguine on Earth, where he is only a 3-D rendered model and not _real_ and _there_, she would never tolerate the Daedric Prince’s personality in the past universe cycle. She would not stand for Cicero’s quirks if she didn’t know him first as a video game character. She would have a bone to pick with Vex if the platinum-blond woman wasn’t so funny and over-the-top in her reactions as a fictional character. Her softness toward them, toward Vex specifically right _now_, reflects her time back when she was the _consumer _from another world.

She knows she must stop thinking like she’s still a _consumer. _That title died with Sloan Holmes, a twenty-nine-year-old retail worker.

Kara carries these thoughts with her as Vex marches her beyond Riften’s walls and to the east. In the wild lands, among the trees and low-lying squash plants, is Lake Hoinrich. The freshwater lake is full of fish friendly and hostile alike. On a small island in the massive body of water is Goldenglow Estate, the target for the two’s heist. Vex explains it on the way in as simple terms she can manage.

“Look, they’re a bunch of beekeepers. The owner’s a bosmer who pissed off the wrong guild,” the thief continues walking through the wilderness as she speaks. She doesn’t look back once to make sure Kara follows; the former Dragonborn is only half-insulted when Vex adds. “You’re still shit at sneaking, but this’ll make or break your place among the rest of us.”

“I’m honored.” Kara’s voice contains minimum sass.

“You have _some _reflexes. But the Flagon? That was a fluke, keep your head on your shoulders and don’t fuck around unless necessary,” Vex halts the duo at the shores of Lake Hoinrich. It’s afternoon, but Vex ushers Kara to a secluded spot and sits next to her in the thickets. She pulls out a pair of enchanted necklaces from her pockets and hands one to Kara. “Water-breathing. You’ll need it if they flood the sewer, try to smoke us out like skeevers. Delvin almost drowned last time I tried to run this route; I got wounded in the fight getting out of there. He coughed up lakewater for days.”

_In some parts of earth, that could lead to an ameba traveling to your brain and causing meningitis. Nasty shit. _The former Dragonborn keeps her thoughts to herself. She puts the necklace on. When Vex hands her a length of thin chord, she stares.

“Your _hair_,” Vex stares as if it should be obvious. “Don’t let it get caught on anything, _dunmer_. If the alarm’s raised I’m not coming to save your ass.”

“You could have left it at hair.” The former Dragonborn holds back a growl as she fumbles with her hair. She tries to switch the topic, to find something else the two can focus on instead of butting heads endlessly. “You mention you’ve gone here with Delvin once before? It didn’t work out?”

“Twice now. Last was a couple days ago, the day you and that Dragonborn walked in and started messing with things. Listen, Kara, I’m the best infiltrator this guild’s got and even I’m having trouble. Ought to tell you a thing or two about these guards.” Vex unclasps a pocket on her breeches and pulls a strangely-colored potion from it. She undoes the vial’s stopper and downs it in one long grimace. The Imperial thief shudders. “By Divines, that tastes like shit. If you got potions now is the time to use them.”

“I don’t have—”

“Suit yourself,” Vex pulls a second potion from her pockets. She downs it slowly. The woman gags and wipes her lips; she glances at Kara. “You really don’t have any? Not even the basics? Why’d Brynjolf let you in again?”

“Because my friend’s the Dragonborn, apparently that counts for something around her,” Kara snorts. “I’ll be fine.”

“You think this is that much a walk in the park? Have you been paying _any_ attention to what I tell you?” The Imperial thief stands and stares down at Kara. Vex’s eyes flash with anger. She bunches up her fists. “If Mercer didn’t ask for you—I’d have left your ass at home with that wretched Dragonborn. Delvin’s a perverted shithole but even he’s got use.”

“Look,” Kara begins but Vex hauls her to her feet. She shuts up.

The _actual flesh and blood_ Vex is much more intimidating than _3-D rendered model _Vex.

“If you try and bullshit me, I’m leaving you here.” The Imperial thief stretches and turns away. “I got enough to deal with on my back.”

Kara swallows her curses and stares at Vex’s back. She grits her teeth. “Do you—Want to talk about it?”

“Like shit I do—”

“I’m serious,” and Kara raises her hands. She catches Vex’s icy cold stare. “_I am! _I’m sorry about—Sahkriimar—Being drunk—Whether you believe that was a misunderstanding or not, I’m _sorry,” _She grits her teeth; it’s hard to apologize when she’s annoyed with the Imperial, but the two can’t heist with the elephant in the room. It’s a distraction; she can tell it influences both of their behaviors. “I am taking this seriously, Vex—And I don’t have any inclination toward—_Engaging _in _bodily skirmishes_ with you. I’m not _Delvin. _I’m not _taking your place. _I’m just trying to be the goddamn _Dragonborn _in peace—" She stiffens at her own words.

“You’re not the Dragonborn.” Vex states blankly.

“…Fuck,” Kara holds her head in her hands. “Arceus, I can’t—I can’t let it go. Fuck. I’m not the Dragonborn. I’m not. God _damnit._”

“You expecting to be? The Dragonborn.” The Imperial woman faces Kara, crosses her arms, and stares.

“It’s—That doesn’t matter,” and Kara’s tone is bitter, because she _is _bitter. She’s withdrawn into a cold, snappy state where trying to make peace with Vex no longer matters. “Let’s get this bullshit heist done so you can go back to hating the shit out of me! Let’s all pretend it’s fine and dandy and nothing’s the fucking problem, Vex! I’m sure you would just _love _that, wouldn’t you? Pretend the _disgusting bitch _doesn’t exist, pretend half your guild doesn’t fucking jack off to the thought of you under them every _single _night! Really sucks being surrounded by perverted pisses, huh? Sucks _so _much you want to take it out on the first thing you can dig your claws into,” the former Dragonborn shoves a finger in Vex’s face and growls. “Guess what? You can’t finish this without me. You’ve tried and you’ve _failed_! You’re a disappointment on your own! Just like _me.”_ It’s as harsh and vicious as the _dovahkiin _she once was, because it is true.

Vex is nothing without her guild. Kara is nothing without the title of _dovahkiin_.

Kara’s words strike a nerve; Vex’s eyes widen and the Imperial’s composure briefly slips. Neither say anything as they finish their preparations with the sun beginning its descent into the horizon. As darkness descends, the duo wade into the lake waters. It’s cold, but nothing their enchantments can’t hold against. Kara keeps her mouth shut and her eyes peeled for slaughterfish as the two women swim out the main island Goldenglow Estate lays on.

The estate itself is a series of apiaries, walkways, bridges, and a beautiful estate plopped directly in a small island. The last of the sunlight fades by the time the duo finish the swim to the island’s northwest bank. Kara doesn’t need directions; she remembers enough of the quest from her playthroughs of the video game to recall a sewer entrance beneath a high-rise walkway. She sees Vex drag herself from the waters of Lake Honrich and head to the entrance. Kara’s frustrations and petty jealousy with _not _being Dragonborn come to a sudden boil as she stares at Vex’s form. She thinks of all her playthroughs, of the times _she _broke into the damn estate with _no ones _help. She think of her abilities in the past cycle of the universe, where she was quiet as moonlight and walked the shadows with Sithis’ blessing.

She pulls her bow off her back. Vex gives her a look and waves her to the sewer entrance. Kara’s eyes narrow. _I don’t need this kind of treatment, Vex. Not from you. Not from anyone! I was Dragonborn once! I believe I can be Dragonborn again! I don’t need to rely on anyone but me!_

She pulls a steel arrow from a pouch at her thigh and notches it. Vex’s stare becomes a seething glare but Kara ignores the woman, aims, and lets the arrow fly. The mercenary on the walkway is a woman without a care for life given the empty skooma bottle on the chair next to her. There’s little satisfaction when the arrow hits her head. Kara doesn’t feel the Night Mother’s hum of confidence or Sithis’ approval when she watches the corpse spasm once before going limp. She doesn’t _need _it. She was once the consumer! This universe doesn’t have a consumer, not one she or Sahkriimar have found yet! She could _be _it, still, somehow! So what if her body on Earth is dead? So _what? _

Vex grabs her arm before she can take the next shot. The Imperial’s whisper is lethal in its venom. _“The fuck you’re doing?” _

“Taking initiative,” Kara hisses back. She wrenches her arm free of Vex, aims, and unloads another steel arrow into the back of an estate guard approaching the walkway. The man falls like a log; she makes a point to thank Niruin for his archery tips later.

To her surprise, Vex lets her take charge of the heist. The Imperial woman doesn’t keep her glares to herself; she makes it known in seething, vicious stares how much she disapproves of Kara’s actions. Kara ignores her and climbs unto the walkway. She begins to pick off guards one-by-one. She knows more are in the house, but she can get those later; she pockets an ebony dagger from one guard’s breeches and a health potion from another’s breast pocket. When the duo locates a bridge spanning the main island and a smaller stretch of land housing the beehives, Kara waves Vex off toward the house. She takes her time assassinating every member of the guards she has arrows for. When arrows run out, she takes a dagger to one’s throat and watches the light fade from his eyes.

The deaths aren’t satisfying. She knows why; she is not one half to her _dov_’s whole. Without Sahkriimar, the bloodlust is merely anger, and anger merely triggered by assholes and attitude. She is not the same assassin she was in her past life. She is… Kara, _just_ Kara. The woman sets three beehives to fire with the thought on her mind.

With the beehive portion of the heist taken care of, she turns her attention to the main estate. She creeps back over the bridge, sneaks to the estate’s primary entrance, and creeps through the unlocked door. She doesn’t doubt Vex’s capabilities, but she’s still _furious _with the woman’s treatment of her the past few days to think straight. She finds two incapacitated guards on the way to the cellars trap-door. The woman pulls it up and slips into the staircase beneath. She finds no guards, conscious or not, present in the room immediately adjacent. Nor in the tunnel beyond it. Kara raises a brow but continues in stealth; she creeps to the farthest room, a chamber offshoot of a room used for storing too many grotesque furs to count. There, she knows, the safe lays and with it a corridor winding back to the sewer entrance that she and Vex can use to leave.

What she finds is Vex’s body, bound to a chair and gagged. The platinum-blond-haired lady is not conscious when Kara approaches. The former Dragonborn unsheathes a dagger and kneels to cut the rope. Vex’s body suddenly jerks and spasms; her eyes shoot open, catch sight of Kara, and stare frantically behind her. Kara doesn’t have a chance to turn; the hilts of the invisible estate guards’ swords come crashing on her skull and knock her out cold.

She doesn’t know how much time passes, but when she stirs, she is bound and gagged in a cell alongside Vex. The Imperial woman glares daggers at her. Kara’s head drips blood and she groans against her gag. The two are unarmed; Kara can feel the absence of her daggers and bow on her body. She can’t feel potions in pockets or the enchanted necklace on her neck. She grimaces at the thought of a stranger fishing through her clothes while she is unconscious; it nauseates her. She fights the urge to hurl and focuses on her surroundings: the cell is grimy, old, with rusted iron bars but a door of steel. Beyond it lays other cells, similar, and beyond that—a door. She doesn’t know if she is still in Goldenglow Estate, or if she and Vex have been moved in the time she spent unconscious.

There’s nothing to do but wait.

Inevitably, after some time, someone finally approaches the cells. It is not a friendly face; Kara doesn’t recognize the elf who stares back at her. He’s an older man dressed in finery and with white hair and a long beard. He’s well-kept and carries himself with the ego of an altmer, a high elf, though the hue of his skin points to mixed background. She fights the nerves in her stomach when he walks to the cells and taps the duo’s cell door. “Ah, yes, the Thieves Guild. I had a feeling I would find one of you skeevers in my estate. Mind the gags; I didn’t _want _to, but I heard you had a Dragonborn join your ranks and we all know what those are capable of.”

_Who the hell is he? _Kara blinks.

The elf eyes her. “I do say—It’s delightful to see one of my _mer _brethren here. Such a lovely dunmer you are, my dear. Can’t say I’m upset. No, that’s a lie, I _am _upset. You had to throw away a lovely life with these heathens? I have half a mind to punish you now, but—"

Nausea begins to seep into her chest. It’s not the kind that makes her sick but the kind that causes her to freeze, to stiffen, and to fight against growing panic. Something about the man’s tone reminds her too much of her _husband_. Vex seems to notice; the woman nudges her side. The action isn’t missed by the two’s elven captor; he laughs and claps his hands.

“Good, good! A nice round of fear for you both. The tastiest—Ah, a shame our time is short. But the Thieves Guild _must _be taught a lesson. I’ve worked _too long _and _too hard _to let you destroy everything I care about! But it’ll be quick, I’m a merciful man. Out of respect for another elf I’ll send the Imperial woman’s body back first.” The man coughs. Kara stares in horror as two armed mercenaries unlock the cell door and rip Vex’s thrashing, writhing body from her side. The muffled grunts and screeches of anger are enough to make the former Dragonborn begin to shake.

The door slams shut. It’s locked. Kara is left alone in the cell as the steps of the elf, his guards, and Vex fade away. Her eyes well with tears and she clenches them shut. _I don’t know how long I’ve been unconscious. I don’t know if the guild’s noticed we didn’t come back. I don’t know if Mercer Frey even cares! He wouldn’t, would he? Maybe about Vex, a little? _

Vex and her will be killed and shipped back to the Thieves Guild. Maybe in little, tiny pieces; Kara doesn’t know but she’s grateful for every second she has that isn’t filled with Vex’s screams. She flinches at the thought and tries to shove it into the back of her mind. Her mind is a whirl of thoughts. _What can I do? No bow, no arrows. No dagger. They took everything. This is bad. Calm. Calm, Sloan, calm. You just need to think. Aren’t you blessed with half the power of a Daedric Prince? Does that make me a Daedric Prince? Why can’t Sanguine just appear and explain this madness to me! _She wants to sob. She misses him and the safety the Daedra Lord carries. It is truly madness; she views one of the universe’s most dangerous entities as _safety_ and a source of comfort.

_I haven’t gotten to see you again. I don’t want to die before then. I don’t want to die. I want to live. That’s my greatest desire! _Her eyes are wet. She swallows spit collecting in the back of her throat. There has to be _something _she can do. She assesses her options: no weapons, no lockpick or key, jack shit for all she knows. She has a weak _flames_ spell, but burning the bindings may set her clothes aflame and if the fire doesn’t kill her asphyxiating from smoke might. It may be her only option. She winces. _I have to try. _

In her mind, the image of a purple tome flickers forward. It’s brief. She knows what the mental picture is of: the book Sheogorath gifted her as a token of goodwill, the spell tome containing instruction to learn and cast _Summon Dremora. _She doesn’t have the magicka for it.

_But it might be able to call Sanguine. It might be able… Even if I can’t do anything—He could. _Kara opens her eyes. She knows it will hurt; draining magicka pools and forcing magicka that isn’t present to manifest out of her own health will hurt. She holds her breath and allows the conjuration magic to crackle to life. She silently thanks the elf for not realizing her spellcasting abilities; she has no doubts he would have shoved her into anti-magic cuffs or something of the sort if he knew. The spell _Summon Dremora _devours her entire magicka stores. It dives deeper, into her flesh, and begins to convert and siphon a portion of her and her _soul_ to produce magicka necessary for completing the spell.

The spell goes off and a sphere of purple magic takes shape outside the cell. Her body slumps in exhaustion; it wasn’t as painful so much as _demeaning_ in the end. She’s a higher level—or the equivalent of it in this reality—than she thought.

“Oh, my! Lady Kara! Forgive me,” the voice is not Sanguine’s lustful and longing pitch but that of a Dremora clad in a butler’s suit. The Daedra has the same obsidian-black skin as her, but he lacks hair and presents two spiraling horns at his temples instead. It’s been an entire universe since she’s seen him, but the sight of Sullivan puts her at ease as he begins to fiddle with the lock of her cell. “_Naturally, _I did not anticipate this turn of events! Here I was, procuring another glass for Lord Sanguine, and lo and behold a spellcaster pulls me from Lord Sanguine’s side and into Mundus! Quite a feat, _naturally _it was you who accomplished such!”

When the cell door doesn’t budge, Sullivan steps back, conjures a greatsword made of Daedric metal, and pauses.

“I’d request you cover your ears, my Lady, but your hands are tied.” With that the greatsword comes down on the hinges of the door with a loud crash. Any thoughts of stealth go out the window, but Sullivan continues. Three whacks in, the door gives and after a fifth strike it crumples and the Daedra calmly chucks it aside. Sullivan strides into the cell and kneels. He quickly undoes the bindings on her ankles, torso, and wrists. He helps her to her feet and looks her up and down. “It is good to see you in fine health, my Lady.”

Kara rips the gag off. She exhales sharply. “Fuck.”

“I do not follow the expression, unless it is meant in the meaning of _rutting_, Lady Kara. While I can engage in intercourse, I do not believe these circumstances provide adequate comfort for such actions.” Sullivan steps aside so she can walk out first.

“I’m not going to ask why Sanguine isn’t here in your place—” Kara begins but freezes at the sight of two guards staring her down the cellblock. She’s pulled backward into the cell; Sullivan shoves her behind him and holds the greatsword in hand.

“My Lady—” It’s all spoken as the first guard lurches forward and reels into the cell. Sullivan’s a nimble shit, every bit a Dremora as the rest of his kind, and he parries the first blow with spectacular brutality. Kara stares at the sight as he effortlessly rips off one of mercenary’s arms and tosses it aside. “—Lord Sanguine is not _well_ at this time—”

The estate guard howls and screams in pain but tries to shove a dagger at Sullivan regardless. It pierces his chest before the mercenary drops limp due to blood loss. The Daedra casually pulls the dagger out and hands it to Kara as a second guard barrels forward. Sullivan’s grip on the greatsword loosens and the guard shoves the Daedra aside. Kara hisses and tackles him; she doesn’t hesitate to _stab, stab, stab _just like a man in motley as she plunges a steel dagger into the man’s neck and upper torso. When the guard’s lifeless corpse falls from her bloodied arms, she exhales in satisfaction. “Gods. I needed that.”

“There’ll be more, my Lady, I can smell their blood from here.”

“Don’t kill the Imperial woman—She’s a bitch, but she’s a friend, I guess,” the former Dragonborn bites her lip. “What were you saying about Sanguine being sick?”

“Not sick—_Unwell_—Aside from missing you of course, Lady Kara, he is not the same strength a Daedra Lord of his stature should be! _Naturally, _seeing you, I understand why!” Sullivan’s upbeat and charismatic tone makes up for how utterly rotten the heist has gone. The Dremora follows her as she climbs out of the cell and begins to wander the cellblock with soft steps. “It is good to know you live, Lady Kara! Lord Sanguine was a mess after the Throat of the World—He stewed in his room for weeks, he did, _naturally _speaking.”

“It was that bad?” She stiffens at the thought. She hadn’t considered how her death might have impacted Sanguine. The two certainly slept together, but she knows Sanguine sleeps with a lot of entities of all races and genders.

“My Lady, it is common knowledge across the Myriad Realms that you informed my Lord, and I _quote, _‘I think I love you.’ _Naturally, _one can assess you and Lord Sanguine share an intimate connection with one another beyond the act of intercourse!” The words make her freeze and flush a crimson bright enough to rival the red-ribbon markings across her Dremora skin.

Sullivan doesn’t seem fazed.

“…Why is that common knowledge?” Kara mumbles.

“My Lady, knowledge is not held back in the Myriad Realms of Revelry! It is the truest place to express passions, to expose yourself! Secrets are only kept within reason, _naturally.”_ Sullivan’s steps are as quaint and fine as his uniform.

The cellblock opens into the sewers below Goldenglow Estate. She knows the chambers aren’t part of the original map layout, but she also acknowledges the universe is different. Kara doesn’t hesitate to break into a run. She feels anxiety on her heels, and it isn’t due to Sullivan; when she reaches the ladder that exits the sewers she begins to climb. Sullivan follows her obediently; his injury has already regenerated though part of his uniform remains frayed.

She hears muffled screams.

_Vex. _Her eyes widen. Her run becomes a bolt and she circles the estate with no care for stealth. She stumbles upon the sight of Vex’s arm laid across a low-rise table. Her palm is stretched out; two men hold her arm down while the altmer lowers the blade. She catches sight of one finger already gone, and she sees red when the blade slices through another. Sullivan doesn’t get a chance to say goodbye; her spell runs its course and she growls and screeches in fury when he is banished back to Oblivion. Vex snaps her head up and stares blankly, a look Kara utterly _despises_.

“A mage? None of you buffoons thought one of them could be a _mage?!_” The altmer’s voice is a roar. He hauls Vex to her feet and holds the blade against her throat. The Imperial woman’s eyes lock with Kara’s own as the altmer continues. “Drop your weapon! Surrender yourself! You and your guild scum can die a quick death _or_ I can make it much, _much _worse for you on the way out!”

Kara counts. _Three men flanking the altmer, one holding Vex down. I have a dagger. Magicka’s not back yet. By Oblivion... _

She hears a roar.

The mercenaries and elf stop. It’s a distraction she needs; she takes off in a sprint _toward _them and leaps off the low-lying table at Vex and the elf. She sends all three sprawling backwards; the elf’s dagger flies out of his grasp and the three go rolling down an embankment. Kara scrambles to her feet and ignores the arrow shot a foot away from her. She tackles the altmer and screeches and snarls at him with all the anger, frustration, and fear she’s built up since Vex first dragged her from the cistern. She finds the two rolling back and forth, each trying as hard as the other to pin one and land a killing blow, but as another roar bellows overhead she hisses and headbutts the man. She tears at his face, his throat, and his eyes like her nails are her talons and her teeth the jaws of life and death.

A dark shape crashes unto the roof of the estate. The next roar that emits summons a storm overhead. Kara pants heavily and shakes as she stands. She knows the four estate guards left should be attacking, but her eyes trail up and she locks eyes with the one responsible for stealing her thunder.

_“Zu’u lost daal, duin.” _The pitch-black dragon howls the words in triumph. Meteors fall from the sky and plummet into Lake Honrich around her as Kara stares at the monstrous, gargantuan form of _Alduin_, the World-Eater. His red eyes meet her reddish-brown ones and for a second, she feels a connection with him, a link that sends the feeling of _fire _up and down her spine.

“I have returned, consumer.” She breathes the translation in a whisper, a statement of disbelief.

Alduin’s head snaps toward someone on the ground further up. An arrow pings off his hide; the estate guard responsible dies in an inferno of flames as Alduin shouts, _“Yol toor shul!” _

Vex rips her from her thoughts. The Imperial thief growls and pulls her into the lake. “We got to go!”

Kara can hear and feel the rumbles and shakes of the earth, the sky, and the stars as Alduin’s form takes to the air and his fury sets the Goldenglow Estate to ruin in a downpour of infernos and flames. She feels the heat lick her heels even when she and Vex reach the banks of Lake Honrich. She smells the sulfur, the fumes, and the devastation even as the thief and her run for their lives from Alduin’s wrath. When she looks back, she sees great plumes of smoke shower praise for Alduin’s destruction. When she closes her eyes after Vex and her stop to catch their breathes, all Kara can hear is the looping screams of estate guards burning to ash. In her mind, she sees only red eyes and jagged teeth. In her thoughts, she finds herself overwhelmed by the horror, the pain, the catastrophe that is now set in motion from Alduin’s arrival.

“Kara.” It is Vex that pulls her from her mental precipice. The woman stares at Kara a long moment. She tilts her head to one side, looks around the wilderness, and pauses. “…I don’t know _how_ or _what _you did—”

“The World-Eater’s back. Things are changing again. Madness—” Kara begins but Vex holds up a hand and she shushes immediately.

“Give me one second to finish fucking around, okay?” Vex grits her teeth, shuts her eyes, and breaths out slowly. Her right pinky and index fingers are gone, Kara sees. “I’m not—I don’t _do _this often—So don’t go around expecting us to be best buddy because of two words—But—”

Another roar makes Kara stiffen.

Vex growls to bring her attention back. “—I’m sorry!... ...And thanks. Which is four damn words, but you deserve them, I guess. That man—"

“Real dashing chap, hope he rots in Oblivion.” Kara says without thinking.

Vex snorts. “Okay, yeah, that too. But that man—That was Aringoth. The estate owner. He’s got a hard-on for sadism.”

“—Had a hard-on for sadism,” with that Kara takes Vex’s wrist—taking care not to grab her injured hand—and begins to pull Vex away. “Keep talking if you want but we got to move.”

“I don’t need my hand held—”

“So much for a great bonding moment, huh?” Kara snorts. “You aren’t a sentimental type, Vex, but I am—I didn’t bust out of a sewer system and tackle a sadistic fuck just to listen to you go on and on about how annoyed you are by me, okay? I'm not letting a dragon eat you for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. ”

When Vex jerks her wrist back and stares at Kara’s back, she stops. She spins on her heels but Vex is there in an instant, eying her from what little height she has over the Dragonborn.

“I appreciate what you did back there.” The thief shuts her eyes and exhales slowly. “Okay? I thought I was going to die. But I didn’t. Because of you. So. Thanks.”

The woman pauses, lips parted but unable to think of a proper response.

Vex’s grits her teeth. “And I’m sorry—About treating you like _shit. _I did overreact with you. But I’m sick and tired of being treated like _meat _by half the people in my guild,” it’s a frustrating statement, aired not at Kara but the world. “I’ve already had to deal with Delvin trying to spy on me when I bathe in the river! I’ve had to deal with lewd comments, ugly stares, everything! Whether it’s on a job or not, I’m just _meat _to shove a dick into. And that,” she sighs. “It gets really wearing. Trying to be tough enough, hard enough, intimidating enough so people leave me alone.”

“I promise I don’t view you as meat.” Kara states quietly. She feels unsure of what to say or do, but she meets Vex’s gaze when the thief looks back at her. “It’s a little late, but I appreciate the fact you stood up for Sahkriimar at the Flagon on that day. Apparently, they’re a lightweight. I feel bad about giving them the drink now.”

It’s a shocking, refreshing sound to hear Vex laugh. Kara stares in shock; she doesn’t believe it’s real at first, but the laughter continues on a moment. The Imperial woman shakes her head and settles with an amused look on her face. “Oblivion, _you’re_ the reason they were acting like that? I shouldn't even ask, should I?”

“…They don’t usually drink,” Kara averts her eyes. “I think?”

“Well, I’ll make sure to hold that over you if it comes up in the future. Which it will. Only a matter of time before I need you to do shit for me, Kara.” Vex’s snort is half-serious but her eyes reflect a mirth that is worth every second of the hell of Goldenglow Estate.

A thought crosses the woman’s mind and Kara stiffens. She bites her lip. “…Vex, _can_ we go back to the guild? This entire heist backfired. There’s a _dragon_ burning the estate to the ground as we speak! Did we even find what we were looking for?”

“Well,” Vex huffs. Her grin becomes a smug, proud smirk. The Imperial woman holds up her right hand—no longer bleeding but with bloody nubs where she lost two fingers—and nods. “I got this out of it, sure, but I happened to see a thing or two _inside _Aringoth’s safe before I got pelted in the back of the head by guards with invisibility potions. There was a deed of sale. Aringoth sold the Goldenglow Estate. An agent by the name of _Gulum-Ei _acted as a third-party middleman. It’s not a lot—But it’s better than nothing. Mercer’s got a long list of contacts, I’m sure he’ll find something.”

_Mercer Frey. _The name makes Kara frown but she and Vex continue the walk back to Riften without breaching the topic. The Dragonborn knows she is in a world of Sheogorath’s madness, a cycle spun to punish his champion for disobedience, but she hesitates to think Mercer Frey will turn out any different than the typical Thieves Guild storyline. The way Vex talks of him is with an admiration that makes her chest ache; Kara keeps the thought to herself. She has no intentions to return her and Vex’s strained ‘friendship’ to the state it was before. Whatever kind of person Mercer Frey is now, she’ll deal with him when the time comes. 

_Hopefully it doesn’t come for awhile. _Kara frowns. _Dealing with dragons on top of everything is going to be so much worse. _


	9. this is why we sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sanguine finally shows up, along with a couple of faces sahkriimar doesn't want to see again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> raunchy but not quite smut  
this chapter is the one that made me update the rating rip  
side note hope its obvious from the tags on the first story  
but lit like 95% of everyone who shows up in this is bi as oblivion and polyamorous  
the ships write themselves! i am but a humble author trying to write some self-indulging fanfic...

When the sun begins to rise and Brynjolf awakens, Zaammeytiid greets him with a stiff nod and weary grunt of acknowledgement. Despite the fact they are _dov _and _dov _do not sleep like mortals, they find being up for literal days straight to do a number on their mind. It’s evident in the bags under their eyes, the weariness in their face, and the way they brush aside Brynjolf’s comments when he peers at them—

“You need to rest,” The thief cracks his neck and knuckles. He pats a concealed pocket in his robes’ sleeves; Zaammeytiid knows one ebony dagger hides inside. “I’ve got watch, lassie. Don’t grind yourself to a pulp outta pride. If I knew you were in such bad shape I’d—"

“_Dov,” _and they are every bit as stubborn as a _dov _should be, albeit more tired than before. “do _not _sleep like _joorre _do. We need to move.”

Brynjolf doesn’t argue _too _much, but he’s unhappy and his gaze remains sharper than usual when the duo head out. Neither know their exact location in the Rift’s wild lands, and it becomes evident one is as bad at navigating as the other. Brynjolf’s experience doesn’t cover the rugged outdoors of Rift’s wild lands, and Zaammeytiid’s eyes struggle to stay open much less acknowledge anything familiar. Their brain struggles to put two-and-two together; they constantly stagger and nearly trip on their own two feet as exhaustion creeps in and begins to overtake them. Their golden hair lays messily around their shoulders; they struggle to braid it and opt to let it flop lifelessly instead.

The thief pulls them to the side an hour in, after Zaammeytiid nearly falls off a cliff the two scale to forego creeping past a giant’s camp. The sun beams brightly around them; for a moment they snap awake and watch their life flash, but the thief’s quick reflexes kick in. Brynjolf snags their wrist and Zaammeytiid hisses as their body crashes against the cliffside.

_“Climb!” _

Zaammeytiid doesn’t need to be told twice. They climb up and sprawl out next to Brynjolf on the cliff edge, breathing heavily. Zaammeytiid shudders and sits up. Their eyes stare at the great height, at the giants on the ground below them, and lastly—at the weary Nord to their side. They catch his gaze and hold it. He’s not happy; Brynjolf’s eyes narrow and he jabs a finger at them. “_This_ is why we sleep, lassie.”

“I don’t _want _to sleep,” the _dov _person snaps, but their voice betrays their body’s exhaustion. When Brynjolf helps them to their feet, they can’t stay upright. They grab Brynjolf and latch unto his side. “I’m _awake_—”

“Aye. Clearly not,” Brynjolf chuckles under breath. Zaammeytiid’s too tired to ignore the heat in their cheeks when he helps them to a secluded spot further from the cliff edge and gets them settled. They stare at him until he crosses his arms and huffs. “Sleep, lassie. Just a little bit. Can’t let you have too many dreams ‘bout me, eh?” His wink makes them groan and turn their back to him.

“Is this safe to sleep…?...” Zaammeytiid’s eyes shut in seconds. They can’t think through sentences. “Stormcloaks. Elves. _Beyn_.”

Brynjolf laughs. It’s a nice sound, deep and lively. “What, don’t believe I can protect you? Lassie, please...”

The _dov _person is asleep before they can think of a clever reply.

They have a dream. They don’t know what to think of it at first, because it takes the shape of a decadent mansion opposed to chaotic, turbulent madness of their Lord. They find themself surrounded by soft sounds of music and revelry. Mead and alcohol permeate their senses and leave them oddly intrigued. Every time they flutter their eyes open, they see different Daedra and souls passing by, giving them looks, eying them up or whispering among each other in languages they don’t remember. They see Dremora dressed in fascinating robes, scantily-clad clothing, and carrying great platters of food, booze, and physical stimulants.

It clicks in their head. They are in the Myriad Realms of Revelry, among Sanguine’s worshippers and minions. They grimace and begin to look through halls. They know shouts are pointless; they don’t possess the same power in the Myriad Realms as they do on Mundus. They note that eyes follow them wherever they go; they can’t hide from the patrons of the realms, nor can they hide their connection to Sheogorath among follows of another Daedra Lord. It’s a complicated web; no one attacks them but they know others _can _attack them if they so wish. If not the will of Sanguine, then they imagine they would already be attacked by the Prince’s attending Daedra.

“Naturally, it is time we find a Daedra Lord’s champion attending these parties! Hello to you, Champion of Sheogorath!” A Dremora in butler robes steps out from—they aren’t sure—and bows gracefully in front of them. The Dremora’s eyes fall on their form and they smile. “Welcome to Lord Sanguine’s home of revelry and romps! My Lord will be delighted to know a faithful follower of his fellow Daedra has graced this plane. Follow, if you don’t mind…”

“…Okay,” Zaammeytiid complies, if only out of concern for their own well-being in hostile territory. The Dremora butler politely guides them by the arm through a maze of halls and labyrinth of great dining rooms full of orgies, feasting, and festivities.

They expect a grand chamber with a throne, or perhaps a sex-filled haze where Sanguine is the only receiver or sole giver. They are taken to a bedchamber, but the butler goes ahead and speaks in hushed words with the occupants—

“My Lord, if you have a moment—"  
  
“Mm, make it quick. Busy here."

“The Champion of Sheogorath has made themself known.”

Zaammeytiid stiffens. The thought of seeing Sanguine again makes them tense. They know how the Daedric Prince feels toward them; if the two’s last meeting is anything to go off of. They are surprised that Sanguine goes through the effort of dismissing the three Dremora and an elven soul that they imagined he was _busy _with. When his butler follows the group out, the Dremora pauses and shoos them in. They calm their senses and take a step inside. It’s not much different from the rest of the mansion; they see decadent décor, over-the-top indulgences in wine, in wealth, in comfort. On top of a very, very large bed, in the middle of silky sheets, Sanguine’s Daedric form whistles softly.

“…Hoo, boy, didn’t think you’d have the nerve to come here.” His greeting is not as _angry _as he is _surprised. _When he stands it’s obvious what he’s been up to; the Daedra Lord calmly throws a thick robe over his otherwise nude body and strides over to them.

He’s almost a foot and a half taller. They curse their _joor slen_’s shortness and eye Sanguine with a weary, careful gaze. When he leans down, they growl. The sound appears to amuse him. His ruby red eyes are utterly intoxicating to look at and pose a definite problem in how magically pulling they are. Zaammeytiid grits their teeth; the ongoing silence makes them nervous.

“Say something—” Zaammeytiid _begins _but they are cut short by Sanguine’s hand calmly pulling their hood down.

“How is such a _bitch_,” and the Daedra Lord’s distaste returns. His eyes narrow. “So damn alluring? Making me want to go negotiate for that soul of yours, _dov_. I could read all your desires, show you a time you would never forget. All you would have to do is ask for it…”

Their eyes narrow on his and he grins wickedly. In their mind they recall—when they were not such a weak, tiny joor—that Kara occasionally spoke of how Sanguine could read her desires. Zaammeytiid grits their teeth and hisses again. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“No, you don’t. Because right now I’ve gone back to thinking how enraged I am you got Kara _killed,” _the words are blunt. Sanguine tilts his head to one side. His eyes are cold. “Not everything I do revolves ‘round sex. I’m a god of options, _dov. _But if you insist—"

Zaammeytiid peels their gaze away. “I did not insist, _et’Ada._ I do not care what you do; I am not afraid of you.”

“Oh, really? Even if I look through all the little things you want? All those desires you hold—"

_“Do not challenge a dov!_” The champion of Sheogorath hisses. “I am not afraid—"

“It’s foolish not to fear what’s _in _the dark,” Sanguine ruffles their hair. His hand drops to their face and he caresses their cheek. Heat rises to their face and they find their brain squirming and struggling to process hot feelings as Sanguine’s hand trails their jawline. He gently moves their head to look up at him. He’s amused by their silence. The hand rises to their lips and a finger gently traces circles there. “You think so many interesting things, champion of Sheogorath. Things I wouldn’t expect. Some I know—It’s as obvious as the sky is blue—But others—It _excites _me to know what you want to indulge in. Do you feel frustrated, champion? Restless? Perhaps a bit,” he leans down to their ear and his hot breath fans it. “_Submissive_?”

Zaammeytiid opens their mouth to respond but Sanguine slips a finger in their mouth and shushes any will to speak. A pang of weakness shoots through their gut. They understand why Kara once described Sanguine as dangerous. He doesn’t need magic; the Daedra is naturally charismatic and capable of weaving ones _wants_ around a finger. Proximity alone is enough to make them yield; part of their body burns and they don’t know what they find attractive at that moment. When Sanguine curls the finger against their tongue, they want to crane their head and follow the movements. His free hand goes to their head and plays through the golden locks. He leans down to them until just a breath away and peers into their eyes.

“Look at you, the fiery champion of Sheogorath. You enjoy being in control,” his eyes are as deadly as the husky pitch of his voice. “But you enjoy it most when _others _are in control of you. When they control the taste,” he curls his finger against their tongue and their knees wobble. “The _touch—” _The Daedric Prince pulls his hand free. He tilts their head to peer at his and offers a deliciously decadent stare. “The _pleasure_… It’s written in your soul, champion. You want to dominate as a dragon and be dominated in return. Why haven’t you acted on this before? It’s all right _here._ It’s all waiting for you to say the word. I can make you forget _everything_ about the Prince of Madness. I can even turn into _him_.”

In front of them is no longer the obsidian-skinned Dremora-like figure, but that of a man in a black-and-red jester’s motley. Sanguine’s appearance is identical to Cicero’s; only his ruby red eyes indicate he isn’t the Imperial man but a Daedra. Sanguine smiles at the ache and softness in their gaze. They despise how he knows everything about their wants, their lust, and their desires. They despise how badly heat burns in their body at the sight of Cicero’s lookalike. They want nothing more than to kneel and submit for the man they recognized as a mate, an equal, a _joor _worthy of the sky in a past life. They feel dizzy and they see stars as they reach out for Sanguine-Cicero’s face and caress his jawline.

His smile is infectious. His eyes are devilish. He leans down but their hand comes up and clamps over Sanguine-Cicero’s mouth. They exhale sharply and shove the Daedra backward. When they talk, their voice is pained; their grief is as abundant as the horizon is long.

“_You,” _the _dov _person clenches their teeth. “Are not worthy of my affections, _et’Ada. _You are not _him_.”

“I’m impressed!” And just like that Sanguine’s appearance melds and morphs back into the Dremora in a bathrobe. He walks to a cabinet, pulls out a bottle of wine, and uncorks it. He downs a long sip and grins wickedly at them. “You’re a stubborn _dov_. It’s not an insult, relax, relax!” He huffs. “I see why Sheogorath indulges in you. You’re a powerful soul. I’m genuinely curious why Jyggalag left you behind when they were freed from the curse us _et’Ada _shoved on them!”

Zaammeytiid turns away. They feel nothing but a deep longing, a searing _krosis _for the jester who is no longer their _mey. _“…You can see my desires, can’t you? You know every one of them?... That's...”

“Every single one! Even the weird ones. I thought you’d be into it, given the whole fantasy you have with me and you and a pair of _manacles_—”

_“And?”_ the _dov _person hisses. “Maybe I do fantasize, Daedra! I am an individual with needs! But those needs can be dealt with on my own accord. Those fantasies are not real! I have no inclination to have you take me from behind while I’m chained to a wagon, _mey et’Ada._”

“Would be fun.” Sanguine smiles politely. “But I was thinking maybe we could talk to Kara about the one with me and you and her and the honey mead. C’mon, I’m just here to have all of us enjoy each other. I want us to _indulge_. Don’t you?”

“I—” They catch their words before a full sentence forms. Zaammeytiid’s eyes dim. “…What I want is irrelevant, _et’Ada._ I am the Champion of Lord Sheogorath. This universe’s cycle is meant to punish me.”

“So, you might as well say ‘fuck him’ and—not actually fuck him, maybe another time—make the most out of the cards you were given. It’s the way to live, the way to be! I _know _all your desires, Champion! _Every last one,_” Sanguine sips the bottle and shrugs. He lowers the wine and stares at them. “In all seriousness. I can feel it radiating off you. You want to fuck around. You want to bed—Let’s see—I can count four, wait, _five_ off the top of my head,” he holds up a hand and pauses. “That ginger thief, lovely Kara, _yours truly, _Cicero, and even that obtuse guild leader that orders you around—You really do have a thing for submission, champ. What's holding you back? Why don't you accept this as part of who you are? Afraid of rejection? Scared things'll get messed up? C'mon, tell good ol' Sanguine here all your worries..."

“I won’t drag others into my mess. Not again.” The _dov _person snaps.

“Well, might be too late for that! Kara’s already part of this mess and you want her on top shoving you against a wall. Brynjolf’s had two different dreams, courtesy of yours truly, where he finds you waiting for him nude-as-a-toot in one and in the second you come begging for him to play you like a fiddle. Frey’s a bit more assertive when it comes to tying you up—”

“You’re the reason why those two are acting like this?!” Zaammeyiitd spins on their heels and _hisses_. “_Beyn, et’Ada! Beyn! _Of course, it is divine influence! Brynjolf would not waste time on a doomed champion! Pompous, foolish _et'Ada! _You dare make me feel such _joor _emotions like hope?!”

“Woah, woah, calm down, let's not tussle with clothes on!” Sanguine throws his hands up. “Look, Brynjolf _chose_ to get himself off afterward! His choice, his choice! It just so happened he was thinking of you beneath him and it worked like a _charm_. Man likes your eyes. I think Kara does, too. Now that you two aren't stuck sharing a body, the possibilities are endless!”

“—Would Kara even approve? Disgusting _et’Ada,_ where is your concern for how she feels about this? Why am I entertaining your putrid suggestions?” Zaammeytiid’s hands clench. They know they should and can end the conversation. Sanguine is not Molag Bal; if they tell him to stop, he will.

"Part of you wants to know. To delve into your deepest desires. I think it could work with Kara, just saying," Sanguine shrugs. “She’d probably die laughing at first. But truthfully? I doubt she’d judge you. Whether or not it's with her, or _me, _or that thief! She wants you to be happy. It’s one of her desires; I can _feel _it. If you are happy in my bedchamber then—"

“You are,” and the _dov _person growls. The flush in their face is too much for them to ignore or avoid acknowledging, and turning to insults is easier than embracing something like vulnerability or feelings again. “Bizarre! Strange! _Pahlok!_” They begin to rant and ramble, rave and shout in _dov _tongue. Sanguine watches them with an amused smile until they run out of steam and glare daggers at him. “…Why do you care, _et’Ada? _You intend to slay my Lord, do you not? _We are enemies!”_

“Kara cares about you.” Is all the Daedric Prince offers at first. He drinks the rest of the wine in the bottle and exhales sharply. “I don’t understand it, either. For the record I _fully _intend to murder the shit out of Sheogorath once we meet face-to-face again. But Kara comes first. She’s,” and the Daedra pauses, uncertain of the right words to use. “…She’s more important. Yeah? Yeah. She wants you to be happy and enjoy yourself! So, I got to care about what’s going on in your head until the day comes I smash your Lord to pieces. Maybe smash you apart if you’re ordered to get in the way.”

_That’s what it is. Obligation. _Zaammeytiid’s stomach twists and they stare coldly at Sanguine. “I will be called to defend him, _et’Ada. _I will rip your throat out.”

“You’ll try. It’ll make Kara very unhappy. I’m going to feel bad that day, both for upsetting her and having to maul such a lovely face. Not a day over thirty. Oh! Idea! Hey,” Sanguine pauses and grins. “Can you make sure to be a dragon again when the whole eliminating-you-from-existence thing happens? I’d feel bad wasting that face.”

“No promises.” The _dov _person’s voice is full of venom, any stray thoughts or feelings or _desires _shriveled up and gone in a second.

“Worth a shot. Gonna be an exciting day in Oblivion, that one. Think your Lord’s prepared?” Sanguine fishes through a cabinet for two wine glasses and a new bottle. He uncorks the bottle, pours two glasses, and walks one over to Zaammeytiid. They accept it, but do not drink. Sanguine gives them an annoyed look and sighs. “Tell me, champion of Sheogorath. Why did you sell your soul to the prince of madness, again? I’ve been _busy _arranging your Lord’s demise.”

“I didn’t sell my soul to my Lord Sheogorath. I sold it to Lord Jyggalag, in exchange—”

“In exchange for the ability to handle your temper tantrums, yep, got it, that old ‘dragons are innately toddlers’ mentality. C’mon, champ, was that really it?” Sanguine bends down to meet their eye-level.

They shut their eyes. “Yes. No matter how little you wish to believe it, _et’Ada, _it was to dominate my soul’s bloodlust. Force it to heel,” and the _dov, _the dragon, the doomed and obedient spirit of devastation, sighs in the voice of a _joor. _“…I wanted to help mankind revolt against _Alduin._ I couldn't without controlling the bloodlust."

“Your actions early on don’t show that. I remember your temper when you and Kara were two sides of a coin.” Sanguine snorts.

“I didn’t remember who I was! Not even my name! Not until my Lord expanded my will,” The _dov _person clenches their fists. Their eyes narrow. They are through listening to Sanguine’s honeyed words and aggravating speech. He's a dangerous opponent to face off against; his words can fill their head with _strange thoughts _and _strange longings _and _strange, strange desires _to do things with individuals they care for. They can't _stand _his casual, laid-back nature nor the suggestions and innuendos in his speech. They want him to shut up. They want him to regret ever speaking to him. “Perhaps you ought to go ask my Lord yourself, Sanguine. Catch up over tea and crumpets. I know Kara’s spoken to him since this cycle began.”

The Daedric Prince stiffens and snaps his head at them. _“What?”_

“My Lord propositioned her. You’ve been _unavailable.”_ The _dov _person growls each syllable, fully intending to share only as much as necessary. They can tell it strikes a nerve; Sanguine’s form shifts and in a second the Prince has gone from wearing casual robes to an entire suit of plated, dark Daedric armor. He grabs them by their uniform’s collar and hauls them off their feet to meet _his _eye level.

“Your Lord can’t have her soul. No one can, not me,” Sanguine growls. “Not the Night Mother—Not Sithis—_No one._ Kara doesn’t desire—"

He puts them back on their feet. The Daedric Prince backs away, turns, and makes for a cabinet. He begins to pull out bottle after bottle of wine. He uncaps each of them and drinks as long as each bottle is full. He growls after and wipes his lips.

Zaammeytiid puts their hood up and looks away from the sight. “I know you blame me for Kara’s death.”

“You and your Lord deserve each other.” The Daedric Prince returns to a calm, relaxed tone. He exhales slowly and begins shaking his head. He grimaces and curses quietly._ “Oblivion,_ Kara doesn’t want this! She doesn’t have to be present for me to _know, _champion! She desires us… cooperating. I'm not running you in circles.”

“When my Lord calls, I will answer him. I will atone for my disobedience.” The _dov _person states quietly. They are worn of emotions, mentally drained in such short time. “…Kara cannot have it both ways, Daedra.”

“But she desires it.”

“_Mey, _emotions on a Daedra is a sickening sight. You are of Oblivion! Act like it, show some selfishness,” Zaammeytiid snaps. “She is a _joor _and—When this cycle resets—You won’t have the power to help her again.”

“Neither will you. Every single desire, _dov,_” the Prince’s eyes narrow. “You want to protect her.”

“She is worthy of the _sky!”_

“She is worthy of Oblivion and the Myriad Realms, of Aetherius, I _know,_” the Prince’s fists clench. He sucks in a breath. “I need to find a way.”

“Go ask my Lord for a way. Maybe he’ll negotiate before you fall to his power, Sanguine. I noticed,” and the _dov_’s eyes close, frustrated and angry with too many thoughts flying through their head. “…You are weak. Barely befitting the title of Prince, _et’Ada. _Lord Sheograph will smite you where you stand the _second_ he detects your presence in the Shivering Isles.”

“What about Jyggalag?” The words make Zaammeytiid’s form stiffen. They return to look at the Prince and catch his eyes holding a strange, intense gleam to them. “Champion of Sheogorath. What if Jyggalag returns to the Shivering Isles?”

“You can’t make them. Lord Jyggalag suffered as Lord Sheogorath—”

“Not to _become _Sheogorath, Oblivion,” Sanguine uncaps a new bottle of wine. This one is poured into a fancy clear glass. He takes a hearty sip and sighs. “Not all of us Princes resort to bloodshed to get our way. Granted—” the Prince parts his lips and eyes Zaammeytiid carefully. “—It _will_ come to that in the end. Whether you are caught in the crosshairs is another matter, _Zaammeytiid._ I’ve sent word to other Princes, proposed Jyggalag stands in as a neutral third party to facilitate a certain _arrangement._ A fair number are interested in making offers for your soul. It will keep your soul intact, keep me from pissing off Kara, and—”

_“Beyn!_ You’d let _Hircine _or _Hermaeus Mora _have me as a _trophy,”_ Zaammeytiid’s voice rises into a furious _roar. _

“I would, yes. Better them than Sheogorath,” Sanguine clears his throat. “Listen, no offense, but if Kara didn’t give two shits about your fate, I’d have your scales plucked and tendons slit. Let your blood run until you beg for death.”

“I’m sure.” The _dov _person looks away. “Let me rot in a cage on Oblivion. A caged animal. Unforgiveable, _et’Ada—”_

“I think it’s fair,” Sanguine reaches out and pats their head. His eyes darken. “_For killing her.”_

They open their mouth to reply but the entire dream melts away in a second and a flash of steel and blue comes into focus as they wake to the sound of footsteps, metal-on-metal, and shouts. Their hazy vision struggles to clear against someone shoving cloth over their mouth. They feel a gag cut into the sides of their mouth and adrenaline kicks in; they snap and jerk upright and headbutt a Stormcloak soldier directly in the head. Their own head _pounds _and aches from the impact; they shake their head to try and clear the feeling but another Stormcloak slams into their back and they crumple forward, head hitting a rock and cutting it open. Their eyes flash in anger. _Joorre _that dare attack them will pay for it in blood!

They try and push themselves up, but their hands are bound in their lap and their body doesn’t obey. They taste poison on their gag; the damn cloth is drenched in noxious liquid with a drug that makes them squirm and convulse uncontrollably. They are knocked to the ground and they hiss and snarl beyond the gag when their body crashes against small pine bushes. The needles dig into their skin and they writhe and struggle as a Stormcloak soldier clambers on top of them and lands a blow square in the jaw. Zaammeytiid’s head snaps to the side and their eyes water. Another punch follows. They feel blood gush from their nose and the cut atop their head.

“That’s for the horses, _Dragonborn.”_ The voices incites anger in their stomach. They open their eyes and stare up at the face of a Nord man with a long beard and a cowl for a helm. The face of Galmar Stone-Fist looks back at them in rage. He hauls them to their feet and looks over his shoulder. “Brayl! You find the rat with ‘em?”

Ten feet out, the hypothetical Dragonborn spies a familiar lady step forward. She’s one of the folks from Helgen, of the same group that initially took them hostage when they wandered off from Kara in the wild lands of the Skyrim’s southern mountain pass. Brayl Stone-Fist growls as she storms over to the captive and Galmar. She throws a broken, bloodied ebony dagger at the ground. “Skeever ran off! He won’t get far; I got Hthru and Ragh on his tail! Sent Poil too, just to be safe. He got too many hits in on Eiseelan. Poor gal bled like a stuck pig.”

“Talos lead her to Sovngarde, if it’s for the Dragonborn then her death ain’t in vain,” Galmar exhales. He turns his attention to Zaammeytiid; the man holds no sympathy when he addresses them. “I’d like to behead all who won’t fight for Skyrim in blood, but Ulfric wants _you_ and I’ll deliver. Brayl,” he looks to the woman across him. The two are no doubt related; in the depths of Zaammeytiid’s mind, they recall the woman calling him _cousin _in the past. They share in likeness nonetheless. Galmar grits his teeth. “Hthru, Ragh, Poil—Do they and others know to meet us in Windhelm?”

“If not—Then at the camps, one of them. Those three are good trackers. Used to hunt sabre cats before the war,” Brayl nods. “Let’s get our Dragonborn friend here to Windhelm.”

“Can’t keep the true High King waitin’, eh?” Galmar slaps Zaammeytiid's shoulder. When they don’t budge, the man grabs the supposed Dragonborn by the hair and pulls, leading them away from the cliff edge and further into the wild lands.


	10. run over by a train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's been a week and with no sign of brynjolf or sahkriimar, kara gets stuck listening to niruin talk about salmon recipes.

“I prefer to eat them with a dash of garlic. You go _gentle _on the seasonings; the salmon’s naturally that flavored! Besides, who wants the fanciness of elegantly prepared salmon when smoked is the _minimalistic _way to lead one to cuisine pleasantry?” Niruin’s words go over her head as she notches an arrow, aims, and lets on fly freely into a mannequin.

She grunts in acknowledgement. It’s enough for the wood elf to break into another one of his many spiels, most of which inevitably present a way for Niruin to discuss his wealthy background and the _sacrifice _he made to leave it. Kara’s grateful the man can keep her thoughts off the present; between that and archery tips, she struggles to keep a cool head around the bosmer. It’s not his fault he’s a chatterbox, but the circumstances surrounding an event in the Thieves Guild gives her reason to be tense and on edge.

“Kara—Kara, my dear, are you even listening? I can’t repeat my grandmother’s recipe for poached caviar forever!” The wood elf waves a hand in front of her face. She flinches and shoves it away.

“Sorry.” The woman excuses herself. “I’m not feeling it today, Niruin. I think I’ll go rest, maybe challenge Rune to a game of cards.”

The wood elf’s eyes dim. He puts a hand on her shoulder before she goes. “Hey, I’m sure they’re fine. Only been a week! Brynjolf’s likely attempted to pass on his charm to our guild’s dear Dragonborn and succeeded! He’s a man known for his outings to Helga’s Bunkhouse, so you know—”

“I’m aware.” Kara smiles faintly. She brushes his hand off and gives him a wave as she walks out of the training room. “Thanks for the encouragement!”

“Any time, any time—” Niruin’s voice fades. The sound of others in the guild, active and moving, fill her ears.

_Sullivan. I’ll check in with Sullivan. _Kara’s brows furrow.

It has been exactly one week since the “Dragonborn” was spotted shouting Brynjolf into submission and forcing him out of Riften. Where to, the guards she bribed wouldn’t say. But she knows it isn’t a good sign. She knows Sahkriimar broke the rules of the Thieves Guild. She knows—and Mercer’s made it very, _very _clear, from the second he caught wind of what happened half a day later—that Sahkriimar has no place in the guild anymore. The second they walk back into the cistern is the last day they call it home. That in of itself is a worry, but the fact neither they nor Brynjolf have been found or located in Riften’s immediate wildlands wears on Kara’s heart.

She makes her way to the bunk hall and gives Rune a _polite _jab to the gut as she goes. The two have a playful relationship; it is more or less banter between close friends or siblings, but she enjoys messing with him and him her when able. There’s a familiarity in the imperial man’s face that puts her at ease. She feels comforted when Rune makes a whole deal out of being _so injured _by such a _strong stab_. The sigh Sapphire gives when the woman catches the two messing around is enough to lift Kara’s spirits and renew her confidence by the time she reaches her bunk. She stops at her bedside chest, rummages through the contents, and pulls out a purple conjuration tome. The book is no longer necessary for casting _Summon Dremora, _but she finds it helpful in expanding her knowledge of the spell’s capabilities and furthering its duration.

Magic sparks and swirls around her fingers. She inhales and picks a focal point for the spell, throwing her will and magicka pools fully into bridging the gap between Mundus and Oblivion. She envisions Sullivan’s form in her head: the polite butler’s clothes perfectly tailored, his horns polished to a sheen, and his red eyes carrying a friendly glint.

“Lady Kara! A pleasure to see you,” one purple sphere of magic later, the Dremora gives her a smile and formal bow. He’s every bit she envisioned him as. Sullivan’s manners leave her encouraged when everything seems hopeless. “Is this concerning one of Lord Sanguine’s letters?”

“Oh, I haven’t written him back yet, have I?” Kara grimaces and runs a hand through her hair. Truthfully, she _wants _to, given written documents passed hand-to-hand through Sullivan are the sole means of communication for her and Sanguine. She sighs and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t gotten to it. Tell him I’ll try to send one out tomorrow. Right now is just… By Mara, just tell him I haven’t gotten to it. Don’t give him a lengthy explanation!” She bites her lip.

Sullivan nods firmly. “Of course, of course, Lady Kara! Naturally, that appears to be your best course of action! Is there anything else I can assist you with? I am currently in possession of a Daedric greatsword and staff of fireballs.”

“How did you get a staff of fireballs?” Kara squints.

“Lord Sanguine made contact with multiple Daedric Princes over the past seven days, Lady Kara. One of them took it upon himself to send an elemental Daedric construct as a _no_ to Lord Sanguine. _Naturally_, he has entrusted me with a staff of fireballs to parry any guest that demonstrates a rowdiness above the level of tolerance in the Myriad Realms!” It’s spoken so _simply, _as if it were the natural course of actions, that the woman holds a hand to her mouth and chuckles.

“He’s been busy, then? Good.” The woman looks to the side. “I miss him. I hope he knows that.”

“Lady Kara, since your initial letter he has demonstrated an astounding zeal for, and I quote, _‘Kara’s tits.’_ I cannot confirm or deny he speaks specifically of _your _tits, but the evidence circumstantially points to the tits as per ascribed to your chest!” Sullivan’s commentary is enthusiastically sincere.

“…Sounds like him,” The woman laughs louder. She stifles the noise soon after and glances between the bunk hall’s two exits. The large, open chamber is empty save the Dremora and herself, but Kara knows that could change on a moment’s whim given how active different members of the guild are. “…Sullivan?”

“Yes, my Lady?” The Dremora stands upright and at the ready. She has no doubts if she told him to go murder Mercer Frey, then he would give it his best shot.

Kara bites her lip. “Has… Have you or Sanguine or—Or _anyone—_Have any of you come into contact with Sahkriimar since—”

“Apologies, Lady Kara, but no. The last point of contact Zaammeytiid had with the Myriad Realms was a dream of theirs Sanguine projected into their mind. According to him, the dream was forcibly cut off by an outside force. Given the ‘force’ did not present itself in my Lord’s plane of Oblivion, it is safe to assume the ‘force’ was another figure on Mundus. Naturally, it does not spell well, Lady Kara.” Sullivan blinks.

“No. No, it doesn’t,” Kara grimaces and sighs. “I know this has nothing to do with—With Sahkriimar—Or my inability to communicate in a relationship—But—Why do you call me by that title, Sullivan? You’re not my servant.”

“Does it bother you, Lady Kara?” the Dremora’s eyes hold concern that is all too sincere. “Would you like to me to address you by another title?”

“I mean—That’s not what I mean—I’m not trying to _dissuade _you it’s just—” Kara groans and holds her head in her hands. “I don’t _understand _why.”

“Lady Kara,” Sullivan’s hand gently, gingerly tilts her head up to look at his face. It’s a very-Sanguine thing to do, something that makes her stare. “When my service was traded for by Lord Sanguine, he requested I do all in my power to treat you with utmost respect and consideration. The title given was dictated as one appropriate by Lord Sanguine himself; in his eyes you are considered his equal. He cited an occasion in which a patron of the Myriad Realms called you, and I quote, a _‘Killjoy!’_ He has zero desire for you to repeat the experience. The same rule has since been extended to all souls under his sphere of influence.”

“Oh.” Kara swallows. The heat in her cheeks is a nice feeling to revel in; she feels valued and cared about. _He remembered that? That was so long ago.   
_

“Lady Kara, should I inquire Lord Sanguine to write you a letter expressing these thoughts? You appear, naturally speaking, quite _stunned_.” Sullivan clasps his hands together at his waist. “If necessary, my Lady, I can ask Lord Sanguine to send a token of his affection—”

“If he wants to come see me in person—that would be nice,” the Dremora woman tucks hair behind one ear and smiles faintly. “I miss him.”

“My Lady, it abhors me to inform you the likelihood of him coming to see you is very low,” Sullivan takes one of her hands in both of his. He frowns. “Lord Sanguine’s presence on his plane of Oblivion is necessary to circumnavigate possible attacks by Lord Sheogorath and the other Daedric Princes. A meeting of Princes is a deadly affair!”

“Is what he’s doing with them that serious?” Kara raises both brows in surprise. She fidgets in place and draws her hands back. “I didn’t realize. He didn’t mention it in his letter. What’s happening that I’m not supposed to know about?”

“He will have to explain it himself, my Lady, I am under strict orders to keep certain bits of information to myself and Lord Sanguine—”

“You just said I’m Sanguine’s equal! I _know_ I share half of his power now. I might not know how to use it, but—” She balls her fists and exhales. “—But I have enough, right? To be considered Sanguine’s equal? So _technically, _or_ naturally_ speaking, Sullivan, to not indulge me in this information would be keeping it from half of _Sanguine. _Which is against your orders.” It’s logic enough to Kara; she stares at the Dremora butler and eyes him up. She’s desperate for any kind of information at this point, regardless if it is or is not related to her former _dov _and Brynjolf.

“…My Lady, you provide a point of exceptional proportions! Naturally speaking, I cannot deny the accuracy of your claim!” Sullivan clears his throat and looks her in the eye. “Lord Sanguine has put in motion plans to remove Lord Sheogorath’s claim to _Zaammeytiid’s_ soul.”

“He’s done what?” Kara squawks at the words. “Is that possible?!”

“Souls are a _currency _of sorts to many Daedra across the planes of Oblivion! Their uses are numerous and the power they supply their masters is exceptionally useful for rallying other Daedra to their cause, if not engaging in direct warfare itself,” the butler replies. “Zaammeytiid _is_ a dragon. Very few Daedra Lords possess souls of dragons. Hermaeus Mora is one of the few Daedric Princes with dragon souls; he possesses the First Dragonborn, _Miraak, _as his present champion. Miraak himself is thought to possess between three-to-four dragon souls that aid him in battle; as champion of Hermaeus Mora, Miraak’s dragon souls technically belong to the Daedric Prince.”

Kara’s eyes widen. She knows of Miraak’s tale, of Hermeus Mora, of the whole Dragonborn expansion released for _Skyrim_ the _video game. _Skyrim as an actual, tangible world… “They want more power? All of these Princes—”

“Lord Sanguine and the others, yes, as per the innate nature of most Daedra! Even I yearn for it, my Lady, it is simply part of us and our way of existence. Lord Sanguine expressed concern over others wishing to stake a claim on your soul in your previous life as Dragonborn! _Naturally, _that extends to all dragons!” Sullivan smiles politely. “If Zaammeytiid’s soul is traded, it may cause a shift in power across prominent Daedric Princes. Normally, one wouldn’t bother with the notion—But this involves Lord Sheogorath, the Prince of Madness! All rules are out the window with him!”

“—Sullivan—Sullivan, what _happens _to Sahkriimar if their soul is traded?” Kara swallows.

“That is up to the Prince in question.” Sullivan pauses. “Lord Hircine may use them as a mount to hunt with, or a hound. Or, given his love of the hunt, he may turn them into prey for him and his followers.”

“What about the others? Who are the primary contenders right now? The ones who might be able to obtain Sahkriimar’s soul?”

The Dremora butler shakes his head. He looks weary for a moment, but he soon perks back up and smiles. “I do not have a list at this time. But,_ naturally speaking,_ I can pursue obtaining one for you, my Lady.”

“Thank you, Sullivan.” Kara’s eyes dim. “Sullivan, one other thing before you go—”

The Dremora butler disappears in a sphere of beautiful violet magic, banished back to Oblivion. She grimaces and rubs her forehead. _Convenient timing, spell. The only thing more convenient would be if Brynjolf suddenly showed up and… _

_“I found him!_ Get your asses in here! Brynjolf’s back!” The voice is a _shout, _coming from either Thrynn or Vipir—both guild members Kara doesn’t know well yet—and it sparks a frenzy of steps to the guild’s main cistern. Kara becomes one of the guild members to swarm Brynjolf when the Nord’s brought in by a tall man with slick brown hair and a soft face. Vipir the Fleet keeps Brynjolf’s injured form upright; he grits his teeth and bellows. “Get him a health potion, man’s bloodier than a fresh-fed vampire! Tell Mercer the second head’s back! Get everyone from the Flagon in here!”

“If there’s any health potions, they’d be with Mercer—Go, Kara!” Niruin doesn’t look up; he’s at Brynjolf’s side and casting meager restoration magic in seconds. It’s obvious the archer isn’t a healer; his magic barely makes a dent in the semi-conscious man and Brynjolf groans in pain softly.

The panic in her stomach doesn’t make itself known until she’s at the door of the guild leader’s quarters. Kara finds her hand hesitates when she reaches up to knock; her eyes widen and she tastes her own fear in her mouth. _He’s not my husband. I need to remember that. _But the panic bites; she wastes precious seconds staring at Mercer Frey’s door, wondering if there’s any other way to avoid seeing the man. Mercer makes the decision for her; he rips the door open and stares at her in the closest thing to surprise.

“What’s the ruckus out there?” The man growls.

“Brynjolf—” Is all Kara says before Mercer shoves past her and runs into the cistern.

When she rejoins the rest of her guild at Brynjolf’s side, he’s being tended to by Vex and Niruin; the two of them share minimal knowledge of restoration magic. Mercer Frey makes his voice loud and clear as he questions Vipir on the spot. “What in _Oblivion_ happened to him?”

“I’ll kill ‘em once I find them—I’ll run the bastards’ heads through a pike!” Vex _growls _from her place at Brynjolf’s side.

“I found him like this, mile northwest of town, I swear,” Vipir holds up his hands and grimaces. “He couldn’t talk right when I found him! Kept saying something about a storm—”

“Stormcloaks?” Kara breathes the words aloud. Multiple eyes turn to her and she hisses. “That’s the only _storm _I know of!”

“Probably good a guess as any, but we need to get him an _actual_ healer,” Niruin bows his head. He’s exhausted; his forehead is dotted with sweat. Kara can only guess whether or not the elf’s gone through his entire magicka stores.

“Will he live?” Delvin’s eyes narrow. He keeps his arms crossed when he strides into the cistern. His eyes conceal a murderous rage Kara doesn’t want to get in the way of. “_Vipir—Niruin—” _

Niruin’s eyes dim. “Not much longer, I’m afraid, unless any of you have health potions on hand? That would delay the inevitable—”

“Kara,” the voice is from Rune. His eyes are regretful, but he keeps his gaze locked on her regardless. Something about the man’s deep, sorrowful eyes makes her stiffen. “—Can’t you use magic? You got—I saw you had a spell tome. You were reading it when we ate lunch yesterday. Do you know restoration magic?”

“_Do _you, dunmer?” Mercer’s eyes narrow. “Kara, answer me! We need to know!”

Tonilia emerges from the Flagon with a shake of her head. She throws her hands up in the air. “Checked the stores! Vekel checked his! We don’t got potions for _healing! _Dirge told me he’ll check the alchemy shop outside the Ratway, but apparently the owner's are off visiting folks a farm west of here so you might as well chuck that idea in the shit shop!"

“Kara—” Mercer’s voice becomes a growl.

Kara swallows. “I…” She shakes her head. “I don’t.”

“Can’t you try?!” Vex leaps to her feet, exhausted and weary from pouring tiny magicka stores into Brynjolf’s body _over, _and _over, _and over. She staggers to Kara and grabs her shoulders. Her eyes are pleading; her blond-white hair is tussled and out of place, all a sign of her desperation. “Kara—_Please. _The man’s gonna die if you don’t!_” _

_Is he that bad? _The woman’s face pales. She swallows and glance across. _What can I do? What can I do? I’m not the Dragonborn! I can’t up and magically fix things! I barely got my magicka stores to a point of casting conjure dremora, much less anything from the school of Restoration! _

“Give me a moment.” The Dragonborn breathes and sways. She holds her head in her hands when Vex releases her. “Is—Is there a restore magicka potion, at least? Something to help—”

“What ingredients we need to brew one? I know we have a few things around the kitchen?” Sapphire's usually brash and tough voice is hesitant.

“_Briar heart, creep cluster, dwarven oil—_Shit, what else, what else? Think, Sloan, think,” Kara hisses. Her head _aches _trying to rake her mind for the memories. She hasn’t brewed in the current cycle; she feels the magic of Sheogorath fading in and out and prohibiting her from accessing the knowledge she _knows _she needs. _“—Ectoplasm! Elves ears!”_

_“We have elves ears!”_ Sapphire shouts, already at the small dining corner of the main cistern.

_“Fire_ and_ frost salts,_ either of those—a _giant lichen,_ a _grass pod,_ _human flesh, moon sugar,”_ it begins to come back to her. Kara feels _it _click in her mind. She envisions herself twenty-nine-years-old instead of the accurate thirty-one. She pictures herself at her personal computer after a long day of nonstop cashiering. She mimes out the acts of scrolling through a webpage with a mouse, typing in potion ingredients and studying how the hell one gets the proper effects so her newest Dragonborn isn’t at a total loss in the playthrough. She exhales slowly and lets her mind sink into the realm of a _consumer, _a citizen of Earth, her world, her _home_. She opens her eyes. _“Pearls, taproot, red mountain flower, vampire dust_… No, not just that—_White cap?_ What’s the last one? Shit—No, _mora tapinella! _The mushroom!”

“By Oblivion, we have one left,” Rune exhales a long string of profanity, at Sapphire's side rummaging amuck through things until he holds up the dried mushroom head in question. “You cast, we’ll work on that potion!”

"The Flagon's got an alchemy stand to the left," Tonilia shouts at the two as Rune and Sapphire dip and make for the exit. "It's dusty but it'll work!"

The majority of the guild either stands back to give Kara space, or stays stubbornly at Brynjolf’s side. Mercer, Vex, Niruin, and Delvin make up the latter group. Niruin continues spellcasting despite the obvious strain on his body. Mercer seethes in an anger Kara didn’t know he was capable of; it feels almost genuine, as if the man sincerely cares whether Brynjolf lives or dies.

Mercer’s eyes fall on her. “Can you _heal him?”_

“I can’t,” Kara confesses, and she hears the growls, the hisses, and the gasps, and the curses, and every other sound that comes from her guild members mouths when the shock and surprise and outrage settles in. She clears her throat and looks around the cistern. Anxiety peddles up her body. Her hands shake but she squeezes her eyes shut. “But I think I know someone who can help.”

Conjuration magic crackles down her arm. She sucks in a breath and wills her body to _relax. _She holds a hand and extends a palm and calls the waves, the ripples, and drifting tides of her magicka pools to _come. _She’s drained as is from the earlier casting, but this time the woman offers a portion of her own Daedric power to convert into magicka. She clenches her teeth and imagines the magic as a corporeal form that crawls out her skin and slithers down her arm.

_“What_ are you?” Someone once asked Sahkriimar that; it’s weird to hear Vex utter the same question to _her_.

Kara’s eyes open and she looks away. “No one special. Not anymore.”

The magic lurches from her palm and explodes into a brilliant sphere of violet and fuchsia light. The pull of threads separating the space and time of Oblivion with that of Mundus rip apart and shred long enough for the choir of a thousand howling horrors to sing. Kara pretends she doesn’t notice her guild members flinch or step back. She raises her head to stare into the depths of Oblivion; the aroma of alcohol, sound of laughter, and hum of sweet bardic melodies fills the cistern end-to-end. She smiles weakly when Sullivan steps out.

Delvin whistles sharply. “That’s a—”

_“Daedra?”_ Mercer cusses under his breath.

“Lady Kara! How delightful to see you again—I was unaware you had guests! Or are these hostiles, my Lady? I am currently in possession of—”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know—No, I mean, no, they _aren’t _hostile—Keep your greatsword away, Sullivan!” Kara’s fists clench when she sees Sullivan move to conjure the weapon. He stops and eyes her. She eyes him back. “I need you to get something for me, _now_, I can’t explain, can you do that for me?"

Mercer Frey is quiet. He’s an observant man; Kara knows he will never trust her after the display. She can’t find it in herself to care.

_This is madness, after all. The madness of Sheogorath. _The Dragonborn exhales.

“Anything, my Lady, I am sworn to serve you and Lord Sanguine for eternity!” Sullivan’s declaration is polite and formal. “What is it you desire?”

“A potion of ultimate well-being,” Kara grabs hold of Sullivan’s arms with both hands and stares intently at him. “Can you get me one? _Right now?”_

“…Those are very difficult to acquire, my Lady—”

“_Sullivan,_ there must be _one_ in the Myriad Realms! Ask Sanguine,” she shuts her eyes. “Tell him I _need _one right now! Tell him it’s an _emergency!_ I’m recasting the spell to summon you in two minutes! Go, return to Oblivion!” Kara snaps the words and the butler is dispelled from the realm in a sphere of purple magic. She feels cold sweat drip down her forehead.

“I can barely feel his pulse.” Niruin curses under breath. He looks up and catches Kara’s eye, then averts his gaze.

The puzzle doors of the cistern slam open; Rune bolts through them with Sapphire at his heels. Rune shoves the restore magicka potion at Kara. She swallows it immediately and ignores the chunks that touch her esophagus on the way down. Kara grits her teeth; she doesn’t have time to wait for magicka recovery. The potion has helped, and she can feel a sliver of magicka in her bowels, but the Dremora is forced to once more call upon the pit of Daedric power vested in her soul. She wills it to merge and tear free of her obsidian-black flesh; she growls and shakes as the magic seeps from her pores and dissipates into magicka for the spell. Her hand glows and she shoves it into the air; a sphere of great, grand _sanguine _expands and rises to a height far greater than what she knows Sullivan to be. The woman’s breath catches in her throat.

She stares at the ruby red eyes she’s come to love and adore.

_“Sanguine.”_ Kara breathes.

He offers a faint smile, “Sullivan said it was an emergency.”

_“It is,”_ She takes the brilliant-red potion when he hands it over. Her entire form shakes but she returns to Brynjolf’s side. She gestures Niruin and Vex over; Brynjolf’s body is still warm. “Divines, this better not go into his lungs. Hold his mouth open, I don’t know if he’ll jump or twitch or anything once—Once this goes into effect—"

“We got it,” Niruin nods.

“If this doesn’t work, I’m kicking your friend out of town.” Vex warns. It’s half-joking and half-serious.

“I doubt you could, but I’d like to see you try,” Kara retorts, a weak attempt to lighten the atmosphere and calm her shaking hands. It helps that she picks up Sanguine’s amused chuckle; her heart lifts.

Kara uncorks the potion of ultimate well-being and gently tips it into Brynjolf’s mouth. Niruin keeps the man’s mouth open; Vex holds the man’s arms back. When Delvin stares, Vex snaps her head at the man and growls, “Get your ass here to help! You can stare at me half-nude in the river but you can’t lift a _hand_ when Brynjolf needs it?”

“That’s all of it. All we can do now is wai—" the woman _jumps _backward; Niruin does the same. Vex is the only one not to react besides a sputtering of curses when Brynjolf’s body convulses and thrashes against the Imperial thief and Delvin. Kara swallows. She ignores Sanguine’s eyes on her, lovely as they are, and sucks in another breath. “Brynjolf—Brynjolf!”

The Nord’s body begins to repair itself, compelled by the potions gristly and lethal contents. The potions of ultimate well-being are rare for a reason; she knows brewing one takes decades of skill and ingredients not easily plundered, even for an adventurer. Her brows furrow and she makes herself watch, through the tears and holes in Brynjolf’s ghoulish red-orange robes and leather uniform underneath, the man’s flesh as it slowly revitalize, regrow, and bleed fresh, clean blood. Kara’s on it in seconds; she nudges Niruin and he glances at Vex and the three become a high-functioning machine of pulling off the Nord’s dirty garments and replacing them with clean bandages and a fresh set of clothes, the latter courtesy of Vipir’s fleeted feet after he _springs _to and from Brynjolf’s private quarters.

Kara feels her knees wobble when she tries to rise. Her vision blurs. Emotions overload her mind and magicka depletion gobbles her will to stand. Vex grabs her and keeps her upright; she gives the woman a meager smile and stiff nod of thanks.

“You need to lay down—Rune, get her to her—” Vex flinches when she catches sight of Sanguine moving toward the two. She stammers and curses but doesn’t resist when the Daedra plucks Kara’s weak form from the ground and carries her away. _“Kara!”_

“He’s okay,” the Dremora mumbles, too sluggish to think through her words. “He’s okay... He’s my favorite.”

She’s certain Mercer Frey says something, but she doesn’t catch it. All she hears is the sound of words in the background that grow more and more quiet as the Daedra’s heavy footsteps ring louder and louder. The clank of greaves against the cistern walkways and the feeling of hot metal against her skin alerts her to the fact Sanguine wears full Daedric plate-mail. She cracks both eyes open and looks up at him.

“I missed you,” the woman says softly, “Sanguine.”

“You’ve been busy,” he replies without looking down. It’s okay; he looks down after a second and his smile becomes a grin. “But look at you now! Must have shocked them all with that show back there. _Pretty_ entertaining.”

His voice is tender and playful and _nice_. Kara relaxes in it. Being so close after so long—She knows it has been but weeks in Mundus, but it feels like an entire lifetime ago. _No, it was a lifetime ago. A universe ago, even. _

Kara shuts her eyes. “Sullivan said you couldn’t come. You were…”

“Busy?”

“Yeah. Busy.” It’s the least complicated word to think of. She likes it because Sanguine suggested it.

“I’ve been _busy_, yeah, I won’t deny that. But I’ve told you before,” They must have reached the bunk hall by that point, because Sanguine sets her down on a bed and she breathes in the smell of her bunk’s blankets and pillow. She smiles when she feels him sit next to her. When her eyes flicker back open, she finds he’s right there, gently rubbing a thumb over her cheek. “If you need me—I’ll be there.”

“You seem to be good at that.” She has enough energy to snort at him. Her lips curve into a smile when his response is to lean down and kiss her. It’s not nearly as long as she wants it to be, and certainly not the extent of everything she wants to do right then, but it makes her heart swell and heat crawl into her face. It’s a blissful, warm feeling, and it nukes any other thoughts into orbit. She doesn’t have the energy but her hands try to crawl up his torso anyways. He draws back and one of his hands clasps hers and gently lowers them to the bed.

“I have to go.” The tone is too un-Sanguine for her not to frown.

Kara’s eyes dim. Her mind comes back to her in a spur of thoughts; the exhilaration of one of the Lord of Debauchery’s kisses can only do so much to drown out the world. “Sullivan said you couldn’t be here. That—”

“This is pretty dangerous, yeah,” his grin is decisively impish, confident, and sharp. “But not for _you,_ Kara. Next time you wave your gorgeous hands and use magic it’ll be my butler. Don’t worry about me. I’m _Sanguine._”

“That’s _precisely_ why I worry about you. You’re _Sanguine._” Kara grimaces and flops into her pillow. She huffs when the Daedra stands. “Nice to see you too, Sanguine. Glad we caught up on life, Sanguine. So happy to know you’re okay after I _died_, Sanguine.” It’s intended as a joke, but the woman frowns when she sees the Prince stiffen. She continues to look at him until he glances at her over his shoulder. “What? Sanguine?”

“…Don’t die again, Kara.” The Prince’s voice is a wisp in her ears, then he’s gone in a sphere of violet magic. As the magic fades from sight and fizzles out, Kara exhales softly and rests her head back.

She stares at the ceiling. _I don’t know if that went good or bad. Probably good, given the Guild didn’t try to murder Sanguine and get massacred. Probably bad, since Mercer Frey now knows I have magic at my disposal and can summon Dremora to aid me. Dremora including a Daedric Prince. Fuck. That’s bad. _She clenches her eyes shut, as if not seeing the world will magically make everything go away. It’s not long before she falls into a deep, thankfully dreamless and nightmare-free sleep.

When she wakes, Vex is there. The woman is surprised to see the Imperial thief in a chair nearby, mindlessly flipping through pages of her conjuration spell tome. Vex flinches when Kara cracks open an eye and peers at her. _“What?”_

“That’s mine.” Kara grimaces. “You’ll find it boring. Gods. I feel like I was run over by a train.”

“Oblivion, what is a _train_, Kara?” Vex’s brows furrow. “Look, I don’t know if you’re aware but you’ve been passed out for fourteen hours.”

_“Excuse me?” _She tries to sit up and succeeds after clambering about her bed for a minute. Kara throws her legs off the edge and lets them dangle. She feels tired and sore even after the long _nap_. “Was I really asleep that long, Vex? It felt like a moment ago. Is—Nevermind that, is Brynjolf okay?” Kara bites her lip.

Vex’s eyes shut. The woman exhales sharply. “…He’s been better, sure, but _yeah. _He’s alive. That’s ‘okay,’ right? Oblivion.”

“I think it counts.” Rune knocks on the doorway of the bunk hall and trots over. He sits on Kara’s bed next to her and casually wraps an arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Gave me a scare. I’ve never seen a Daedra up close before. In my dreams, sure, but right _there?_”

“Brynjolf awake yet? I’ll kick his ass out of bed if he dawdles too long healing.” Vex scrunches her brows. It comes across as a half-serious statement.

Kara turns to Rune. “I won’t let her. Tell Mercer she hasn’t gone rogue yet.”

“…I’ll keep it in mind.” The man chuckles. He gives Kara’s shoulder a squeeze and makes to stand. Rune’s face is as tired and weary as the bags under his eyes are heavy. His smile remains perky and bright as he winks at Kara and looks to Vex. “Keep an eye on her.”

“_I know,_ I’m not three. Neither is she,” Vex snaps.

“For the record, he’s awake,” Rune gives the two a wave as he walks off. “Feel free to say _hi._ I’m grabbing mead then hitting the hay after. Too much shit to stay sober.”

“I’d like to see him.” Kara growls when she nearly falls after standing too quickly. Her legs cramp and Vex barely catches her in time. The woman fumbles and looks up at Vex, both in apology and in thanks. “—I’m not doing so well at this, huh?”

“No shit, c’mon, give yourself a moment to stretch—You were asleep for fourteen hours.” Vex shakes her head, but there’s no scowl. In fact, Kara swears for a moment she catches a smile on the imperial’s lips. She keeps the observation to herself.

Vex helps her get walking. Kara thanks her profusely; the women exchange nods and half-grins at the other before Kara makes the walk to Brynjolf’s quarters. His isn’t far off from the bunk hall; his bedchamber’s a couple dozen yards closer to the main cistern in comparison. Kara knocks on the door and stares Delvin in the eyes when he yanks it open, “Look who it is! If it isn’t our favorite magician. Huh, Brynjolf?”

“Lass.” Brynjolf’s greeting is accompanied with a faint smile. He sits upright in his cot but leans against the head of the bed, a pillow tucked between it and his back. He wears civilian clothes, no armor, but even with the rustled gray shirt and wrinkled slacks Kara can still sense a hint of mischief in his bones. The man _reeks _of a thief, but appears as ordinary as a dock worker or stablehand.

It becomes stranger to acknowledge the sight the more she stares: Kara is used to seeing him in full-Nightingale armor, or his red-orange robes he dons when conning others in the market, or even his black or brown leather uniforms for lighter thefts and thievery. Brynjolf’s form still has bandages beneath the shirt, and the linens appear clean and tightly wound over muscle. Bruises pepper his body. The potion of ultimate well-being didn’t heal every inch of his form, but she’s happy he’s not dead. 

Standing to the side, with his arms crossed and a careful gleam in his eye, is Mercer. “Kara.”

“Guild master.” The woman replies. She straightens upright and holds his gaze.

_“Glad_ you could join us in the land of the waking. I was just asking Brynjolf here what in Oblivion happened to him.” Mercer nods at Delvin to shut the door. Afterward, he turns to the Nord on the bed. “Brynjolf. _What _in Oblivion happened?”

“Stormcloaks.” The Nord grimaces. “Nasty skeevers, the lot. Jumped me.”

“I remember seein more of them southside of Riften a week ago when I picked up a shipment.” Delvin looks around the room. “Guess that—”

“Hey! Don’t start without me,” Vex doesn’t hesitate to force the door open and slip past Delvin. She whirls around on her heels and marches to Brynjolf. Her eyes gleam in anger and she shoves a finger at his chest. “You got any idea how lucky you are, Brynjolf? Almost died on the guild’s doorstep!”

“I reckon Mercer would’ve sent me to Oblivion for that. Annoying to clean up the dead. But it’s good to see you, little Vex. Miss me?” Brynjolf’s smirk is wicked.

Vex’s eyes narrow. She hisses through clenched teeth_. “I would never.”_

“Sounds like a yes to me.” Delvin huffs.

It’s almost comical, the way they all mingle effortlessly. Kara swallows. She feels out of place in their midst. She turns to Mercer and musters the courage to inquire, “Guild master, do you need me to step out?”

“Stay, Kara. I need to talk to you.” It’s not Mercer who replies but Brynjolf. The Nord’s voice is strained. The hair on the back of Kara’s neck stands up on end at the tone.

_Sahkriimar. _Kara’s heart drops. In the madness to keep Brynjolf alive, she forgot about her former _dov._

“Stormcloaks happened,” It’s a defeated series of words and Kara knows where the story goes but her body wants to reject it. She stares Brynjolf down as he slowly continues, “…Took lassie. Should’ve seen it coming—"

It’s real, it’s happened, her mind empties, and Kara stalks over to the man. She ignores Vex’s look of concern and hisses at Brynjolf. _“You let the Stormcloaks take Sahkriimar?” _

“Not willingly.” Brynjolf’s voice strains. “Not willingly, lass. Did my best, aye.”

“Brynjolf wouldn’t up and abandon the guild’s Dragonborn.” Delvin’s interjection offers a semblance of calm to the seething, outraged Dremora. “Relax.”

“I need to know something, Brynjolf,” Mercer waits for the Nord to nod in acknowledgement before the guild master continues. “A week ago. You and Sahkriimar took off. The guards say they shouted you out of Riften.” The man’s brows scrunch; Mercer’s gaze is sharp as steel and it bears down on Brynjolf’s form.

The Nord snorts. “Mercer—You think they shouted me out my own town?”

“They’ve done it before.” Vex’s words are angry; she needs a way to vent and Sahkriimar offers that in their absence.

Brynjolf squints at Vex. The ginger shakes his head and begins to laugh. It’s light and merry, almost as encouraging as his voice as he goes on. “Little Vex—Relax, relax! _Relax, _like lassie could one-up me so easily. Sure, it’s happened before. But it hasn’t happened since they _joined. _This’s all a misunderstanding.”

There’s something off in his tone and in his words. Kara can’t pinpoint it until the next half of Brynjolf’s spiel sinks in.

“Lassie and I got a thing going on.” The man’s calm as a cucumber. Kara doesn’t know if cucumbers exist in Skyrim, but she eyes him all the same as Brynjolf coyly adds on. “Sometimes _I _have needs, sometimes _they _have needs. Sometimes we got needs at the same time! Only sex. Nothing more, no strings attached. Lassie comes to me for a night out, I show them the in’s and out’s of the back alleys—That’s all it’s been. A week ago, we had a romp outta town. It’s shit luck it all went south once Stormcloaks jumped us.”

_You’re lying. _The woman catches the gleam in Brynjolf’s eyes. His lips have a twitch to their curve, a condition behind the charming smile. _Why would you protect Sahkriimar? You only knew them for four days when this happened, Brynjolf. _

“I’d ask to speak to Sahkriimar alone on this matter but they aren’t here right now.” Mercer’s words are stiff and stoic. He glances sideways at Kara, at Vex, and lastly to Delvin. It’s a contemplative pause and Kara worries about the endless number of thoughts he could be running through his head. “But since you two are—And _Kara_—It’s a good time as any to lay some cards on the table.”

_Does he know Brynjolf’s lying? _The thought makes her stiffen. Her eyes widen and her brain attempts to gauge the Nord’s bedchamber and determine the best way to subdue and separate Mercer from the rest of the Thieves Guild. _If he attacks, we’re all dead. Except maybe Delvin? But Mercer’s got the skeleton key. He’s technically a Nightingale, an agent of Nocturnal even if the Daedric Prince disavowed him for his treachery. I can't best him in combat, Brynjolf's injured, and I doubt Vex could fend him off forever. _

Mercer Frey rolls his head. He grimaces and steps forward. His arms fall to his side. “Alright, Brynjolf. If it’s as you say, sure. Sahkriimar’s not involved in part of the story where Stormcloaks nearly _mauled you to death._ It takes care of one issue,” Mercer looks to the other three. “We got a bigger elephant in the room. Vex, you remember that bit of info you got me before a _dragon _burned Goldenglow to the ground?”

“Gulum-Ei. The estate sale. I couldn’t forget after that night.” Vex’s reply is curt. She adds on, “Kara and I barely got out with our lives.”

“Our client was none too pleased with that. Be grateful she blamed it on the dragon and not _you, _or both your bodies might be six feet underwater by now.” Mercer snaps. He turns to Delvin. “Tell them what you found out about our good friend _Gulum-Ei.”_

“He’s an Argonian living in Solitude, and the guild’s former contact in the East Empire Trading Company. Took some time to dig it up, but I found one of our old correspondences from back when _Gallus_ was guild master.” Delvin’s brow furrows.

Kara doesn’t miss Brynjolf’s reaction; the man snaps upright and stares at Delvin with a sudden anger, all thoughts of anything else forgotten the second _Gallus _is mentioned. Vex raises both brows; the woman huffs. “Wasn’t he murdered twenty-some years ago?”

“By_ Karliah.”_ Brynjolf growls. “Gallus was the closest thing we ever got to a father, Mercer and I. Practically took us under his wing! Taught us what we knew—And she—"

“We don’t know for sure if she’s involved, Brynjolf,” Mercer states sternly. “Don’t lose your head ‘till we know the truth. Then we can deal with her. Vex, Kara,” the guild master eyes both women. “I’m sending you two to Solitude to find Gulum-Ei. Get all the information you can out of him. Rune’ll come along to act as support in case things go awry, but Gulum-Ei’s said to prefer ladies with lip.”

“—What about Sahkriimar?” Kara blurts out before any of the group can leave Brynjolf’s room. “They’re—They’re out there—”

“They’re the _Dragonborn.”_ Mercer brushes her words aside. “If they can’t handle a couple Stormcloaks then clearly they aren’t cut out for this line of work.”

“They’re one of us, Mercer,” Brynjolf adds on. The man frowns. “If word of this gets out—”

“—Word _won’t.”_ Mercer snaps. He exhales sharply and straightens upright. “Look, I’ll speak with my list of contacts. See who has info on where they might’ve been taken. When they get back to me we’ll re-approach this subject and discuss the _rescue parties _you’re thinking of making. But it’ll take time, Brynjolf. Don’t jump the crossbow; remember who’s in charge here.”

The ginger-haired man grunts and flops back into his bed. “Fine. Out, all of you,” there’s a pause as the group shuffles out the door, but when Kara makes to shut it behind her she hears the Nord call. “Kara. Not you, lass. A moment.”

_By Oblivion, what else could you want to say? How else can you make this series of days stranger, Brynjolf? _Kara swallows the thoughts and closes the door to give the two privacy. She crosses her arms and squints at the injured man. He looks sullen and defeated; it’s a terrible look for him and she despises every second of it. “I’m listening. Brynjolf.”

“…I know what you’re thinking, lass. Same as me,” the Nord shuts his eyes and grimaces. “I see it in your face.”

“You’ll need to be more specific, I’m too exhausted to think through cryptic phrases and poor sentence structure.” Kara says.

Brynjolf exhales. He opens his eyes and glances her way. “You’re thinking of running off on your own, trying to save lassie. I get it. I do. Thought the same.”

“Why would you think that?” Kara sighs. It’s not an inaccurate assumption, but she tires of trying to figure out how to be less conspicuous.

“Prior to the Stormcloaks jumpin’ us, lassie and I had a talk,” and the man’s voice becomes very quiet, as if the walls have ears and listen for the wrong thing. Kara snaps upright. When Brynjolf’s gaze narrows on her, she walks over to his bedside. Brynjolf’s gaze contains many emotions, all too quickly fleeting for her to pick out. His voice remains low as he continues. “Lass, some of the things lassie told me… You were taken by Thalmor a year, both of you? Is that true?”

Kara’s eyes darken. The word _Thalmor _alone triggers a visceral disgust in her entire body. Her fists clench and her hands shudder. She takes several deep breaths to calm down but it does nothing for the nausea in her stomach or weight on her chest. “…Something like that. Sure. Let’s say _that, _Brynjolf.” The woman breathes each word a new warning.

“I’m not here to dig up skeletons in the closet.” Brynjolf says.

“Then be careful. Because you’re close enough to one I don’t want to deal with right now.” _Or ever. _

The thief nods. He averts his gaze to the side and parses his lips. “…Just wanted to say, lass. Lassie mentioned you two had a bad history with them. Went through it together?”

She grants him one nod.

“When you bond like that, lass, it’s not the kind of thing easily broken. It might seem tempting, but you can’t give in to the want and go free ‘em. We don’t know where they are. We don’t know what state they’re in.”

“That’s not—” Kara grimaces, her composure splinters and the tiny crack in her shell begins to expand. She curses and turns away. “When we were the Thalmor’s property—Brynjolf—_They _were the one who broke us out. They set us free, set _me _free! They swore never to let something so _shit _happen again, not to us! Not to me. And in a way they were right,” the woman’s eyes dim. She looks at her feet. “…Because it didn’t happen to me. It happened to _them_. They’re the Dragonborn, right? They’re the so-called hero. The Stormcloaks will turn them into another toy, a tool, a weapon, an item to own and parade. Just like the elves, but a different name and different banner. I can’t just—"

“—If I can have another word, lass,” and it’s a soft, pleading statement, because there’s a sympathy in Brynjolf’s voice that Kara missed before. She frowns but doesn’t look back as the man goes on to say. “They got you two out of Thalmor before? Those are high elves. Charms, enchants, the works. But they still _escaped._ You got to trust their abilities. If they managed the Aldmeri Dominion, then they can handle a few Stormcloaks. Got to have some faith in them.”

It’s not much to go off on—because things are far, far more complicated than Brynjolf makes it out to be—but she appreciates the sentiment. It lifts the anger and resentment she holds over the elves, the bitterness and guilt she holds over herself, and it puts it all to rest for another time.

“…I hope you’re right.” The woman says softly. She walks to the door, opens it, and glances back over her shoulder. “If you’re not, I’m having Vex throw you in the cistern.”

“I’d like to see little Vex try that,” Brynjolf laughs at the thought.

Things aren’t better, but by the time Kara shuts the door to Brynjolf’s bedchamber and makes for the bunk hall she’s put her thoughts at ease and begun plans for the future.


	11. (smut) taught by a jester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zaammeytiid meets ulfric stormcloak in windhelm and uses him as a dancing partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut chapter ya'll  
didnt write this one thinking it'd turn out this way  
BUT SOMETIMES IN LIFE it happens
> 
> edit: as of 11/5/2019 this chapter got shortened because i decided to stick the latter half into a diff chapter sooooo yes

The Stormcloak group takes their time en route to Windhelm. There’s dragons in the area; Zaammeytiid can hear their roars from the ground, strong and beckoning. The innate need to devastate and destroy and assert their dominance as a stronger creature, a being of the skies, it _calls_ to them, but they cannot answer. They can hush the desire for a time, but it’s noticeable: the Stormcloaks begin to give them glances and glares whenever they stare off at the _dov _flying far, far away. The soldiers are not pushovers; their awareness of Zaammeytiid’s affinity with their fellow dovah makes the group take precautions: careful treks and descents up and down cliffs, wades through rivers, and fights through giant camps are all preferences to allowing Zaammeytiid to draw the attention of a dragon.

“They’ve called dragons from the sky before, cousin,” Brayl informs Galmar and the rest of the group when they stop to boil clean water. “I seen it for myself! We can’t let them too close. They’ll summon one from the sky, call one to their aid.”

“Point made, Brayl.” Galmar nods.

It takes five days to traverse the Rift, cross into the region of Eastmarch, and trek into the snow-laden streets of Windhelm. Zaammeytiid inhales the smell of the old stone city. If not for the circumstances surrounding their presence, they might enjoy the ancient Nordic architecture; it is the closest thing they can find outside dusty tombs and crypts reminding them of the time they once came from. They don’t have time to reminiscent; Galmar and Brayl Stone-Fist marches them and four Stormcloak soldiers into the heart of the city, beyond its inns, its graveyards, its markets and plazas, all into the massive granite palace known as the _Palace of the Kings. _Beyond the palace’s grandiose double-doors, a great entrance hall opens up and melds into a joint feast hall and court room. At the end of this massive chamber is a tall, triumphant stone throne that overlooks the hall’s long, stone dining table.

Zaammeytiid does not look forward to meeting Ulfric Stormcloak again.

The man who sits at the throne is a tall Nord with ginger-brown hair not dissimilar to Brynjolf’s. Zaammeytiid can see the man keeps up on his grooming; he has a well-trimmed mustache that connects with the barest scruff of a beard, a fine look against his sharp cheekbones. Ulfric Stormcloak wears robes of finery; his long coats are lavish and adorned with furs. He’s likely in his late-forties or early-fifties, if Zaammeytiid had to guess, but they find they don’t care much for the pasty white man and perusing asinine irrelevancies like _age_. He is the leader of the Stormcloaks, the Jarl of Windhelm, and a _joor_.

_Mortal. _Zaammeytiid wants to growl but the gag makes it difficult.

“…Later, Jorleif. We have guests,” Ulfric Stormcloak looks up from conversation with his thick-mustached steward. Zaammeytiid doesn’t know the stewards name but finds a glimmer of amusement in observing the steward’s wide eyes and cautious demeanor.

“My king! Talos bless the ground we walk on, you live!” Galmar Stone-First shuffles across the room. Ulfric wears a smile and stands; he greets Galmar with a hearty embrace. “I feared the worse followin’ Darkwater. Though we wouldn’t meet again ‘till Sovngarde.”

“That day was not my day, brother.” Ulfric rests both hands on Galmer’s shoulders and grunts. “The Nine Divines guide me.”

“No welcome for the rest, Ulfric? I have half a mind to set a sabre on you in your sleep, my king,” Brayl temporarily releases their grip on Zaammeytiid’s arm to walk over and greet Ulfric the same way. The woman’s tough demeanor contains a flaw; Zaammeytiid does not miss the softness in Brayl’s eyes when the Nordic woman draws back from Ulfric’s hug.

“We bring you a gift, one befit the true High King of Skyrim!” Galmar moves back and gestures for the other Stormcloak soldiers to shove Zaammeytiid forward. They don’t resist; they quietly stride forward until Galmar’s sharp watch is too much for them to take another step. The Stormcloak guards courteously push Zaammeytiid to stand in front of Ulfric as the latter peers at them.

“Ah, yes, Dragonborn. You were with us at Helgen. You called the one known as _Odahviing _from the sky.” Ulfric’s smile fades. He looks to both Stone-Fist individuals a foot away. “You gag and bind them to address me, Galmar? Brayl? They are Dragonborn. If we cannot stand and talk to another in peace, then you ought to have cut their throat long before Windhelm.”

Zaammeytiid doesn’t offer thanks when their gag is removed, and their hands unbound. Their eyes narrow at Ulfric. Like almost every other _joor _that’s an adult, they find Ulfric is taller by them by a long shot. They can practically hear their neck whine in their head from craning up to look at the Nord. His eyes are a sharp, vivid brass-brown. They couldn’t tell from the distance, but up close they note the man has a small braid framing each side of his face; the braids are ornately tucked into the rest of his combed-back hair. They avert their eyes but look back when Ulfric clears his throat.

“Dragonborn. You introduced yourself as _Zaammeytiid, _did you not?” Ulfric’s gaze deepens on them. His eyes trace the outline of their figure. They grit their teeth but nod. He squints and reaches a hand for their jawline, caressing it in the process. _“Slave of time._ You have a sad name, Zaammeytiid. A disgusting one.”

Their eyes widen. “You speak—”

“I know more than most,” Ulfric states calmly. “—I trained with the Greybeards at High Hrothgar when I was a boy.”

“_Zu’u niid dovahkiin, zu’u dov zaam mey tiid.” _The words come out a deep growl, a warning to the man that he acknowledges with a twitch of his lips. Zaammeytiid refuses to budge. Their eyes narrow. _“Meyye, _all of you. Do not speak as if I am _dovahkiin_.”

“But you are Dragonborn. You are _the_ Dragonborn. Denial of your place in the world brings no solace, Zaammeytiid. The Nine Divines elected you to be hero of prophecy. You are blessed with dragon blood.”

_“Because I am_ _dov! _I am dragon! _Joor slen _does not change that, _mey! Pahlok joorre!” _Zaammeytiid’s fists clench and they don’t miss Galmar’s hand going to his weapon at his waist. They growl and hiss and snarl at Ulfric, but the Nord doesn’t back down from them. They almost admire his tenacity; he displays courage in the face of a _dov._ _But those actions are foolish. They will lead you to a quick death, joor. You and all the rest. _

“…My abilities to harness the power of my _thu’um_ does not lend to knowledge of _all_ aspects of _dovah _tongue, Zaammeytiid.” Ulfric’s hands hasn’t left their face. Their brows furrow. “You will have to forgive me, but I ask you keep to the tongue of man, of common speech.”

“Yet you know the name of this _dov, _and that of _odahviing,_” Zaammeytiid resists the urge to screech the name from their lips and call the dragon from the skies. They feel Ulfric’s hand stop on their face. His fingers are rough and calloused. The venom in their words seethes through as they state, “Release me, _joor.”_

Ulfric withdraws his hand. He raises a brow, amused and not at all convinced of… _something _they cannot pinpoint. “You remember the words I said in Helgen, Dragonborn? You are not who I… expected.”

“Much shorter than a Nord should be.” Brayl’s voice comes from the side; she whispers not to Ulfric but to Galmar where the two now stand yards away.

“This one is no Nord,” Ulfric snaps his head at her and shouts. “Do not mistake them for it! They are a gift. A blessing of power beyond what man can hope to achieve. They walk a path of prophecy, enshrined in the flesh and blood of humans. Truly touched by the Gods. An insatiable, divine offering… Talos be praised, for the Dragonborn walks among the children of Skyrim.”

Zaammeytiid’s tense stare doesn’t waver. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

The edges of Ulfric’s lips curve into a smile, a gleam of knowledge and pride. He leans to their ear and chuckles at the shiver of their body when his hot breath fans it. “…It is not flattery, Dragonborn. Only truth.”

_Curse this useless joor body! These useless joor reactions! _The _dov _person averts their gaze to the side and they grit their teeth. “You talk so _freely, joor, _as if you can waltz in and sweep me off my feet! I am a prisoner, bound or not. My opinion of you is absolute in nature. We are not friends.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. It is true you arrive to my city under a prisoner’s shackles, but you do not need to stay that way.” The Jarl retreats to his throne. He lounges back in it and waves at the Stormcloak guards around the room. “Take this one to a guest chamber. I will talk to them another time, when they are more settled and ready to acknowledge their destiny as Skyrim’s hero.”

All Zaammeytiid thinks of over the following day is their longing to slit Ulfric Stormcloak’s throat and feed it to dogs. They make it known in the growls and roars and shouts that emerge from their room. It is a frustrating ordeal; though they consider shouting the palace down and allowing dragons to ravage Windhelm, they hold back. They know the leader of the Stormcloaks is no fool. There is little chance they can escape alive if they summon Odahviing to attack, given the dragon’s own hate for them. They consider the idea of _gol hah_’ing the leader to set them free, but they dismiss it after a quick whisper of _laas _reveals the dozens upon dozens of men waiting in the wings of the palace to respond to the slightest ounce of hostility. Ulfric is not a fool; they are forced to admit he has taken precautions in establishing order, command, and utmost loyalty in the guard force tasked with keeping _them _in order.

They decide to wait. They need time to think of a plan, to focus, and they do so with hisses and curses and long rakes of nails against the walls of the chamber. They do not let maids or servants of the Jarl enter the room without at least three guards keeping them off the individuals. Zaammeytiid finds solace in provoking fear in common staff and finds entertainment in seeing how far they can push the guards before one snaps and orders them to be left alone for a time.

Two weeks after they were first captured by Galmar Stone-Fist, the _Dragonborn _is summoned from their chamber to attend a dinner. They are given clean robes. Brayl crosses her arms and notes their hesitation to take them.

“You put them on yourself or I will strip you down and force you to dress, Dragonborn.” The Nordic woman snaps.

They have an idea of why Brayl loathes them _so, so _much, but they keep it pushed in the back of their mind. They begrudgingly undo their armor and change into the clean, crisp clothes; the outfit is far too complicated an ensemble for their preference. The hem of their robes stops just before it touches the floor; it is heavy, obtuse, and they struggle to lift their arms among the layers of fabric in the sleeves. They decide they detest the finery of it all, as the warmth offered does not overlook the uselessness of the attire in combat. When Brayl makes for a comb and grabs their hair, they hiss at her, but she pulls the locks and they are forced to settle.

“I am making you beautiful, Dragonborn.”

“I do not care for such trifling matters!” Zaammeytiid growls.

Brayl’s brows furrow. She forces the comb through endless tangles in the supposed Dragonborn’s hair. Brayl is ruthless in running the comb through the golden locks, and she shows no compassion or sympathy for the grunts and hisses of pain Zaammeytiid makes. Her fingers are rough and she crudely forced the golden locks into a long, lively braid. “You disgust me. But you are our hero of prophecy. I will not let Skyrim down out of my own contempt, Dragonborn.”

Zaammeytiid is taken to the dining hall. They expect to find dozens of Stormcloaks, or even Galmar Stone-Fist and the Jarl’s steward, but the room contains only Ulfric. The Nord is well-dressed, clean, and already seated at the head of the table with a plate full of food. When Zaammeytiid takes a seat further down, he stares at them. They stare back, but reluctantly push the chair back and sit at the spot right of Ulfric. The action seems to please him.

“You are a guest. Enjoy, as a guest would, Dragonborn.” The Jarl eats with cutlery and finesse, far from the rugged picture of a leader of a rebellion. A cloth napkin is tucked into the man’s collar and splays over his upper garments.

“My taste in food is not easy to satiate, _joor._” The _dov _person states sternly. They push the plate of food away. It has too many plants and itty-bitty prepared bits of rabbit for them to hold any interest. “You want my company? Bring me _slen._”

Ulfric sets his silverware down. He pours himself a tall glass of mead and sips from it. His eyes narrow when he sets the glass down. “Tell me what _slen _means.”

“Flesh.” Zaammeytiid’s grin is wicked and vicious, violent and scorned. They are truly dragon; the words reek of their lust for devastation and destruction.

“Then you will it have it, Dragonborn,” the words make them stop and stiffen. Ulfric stands and shouts. “Jorleif! _Jorleif!_”

In the hall, two doors rest opposite the other toward the middle of the walls. One door opens and the steward steps out. His hat is crooked and his eyes wary when he catches sight of Zaammeytiid looking on with curiosity. Jorleif turns to Ulfric and pauses. “Yes? Ulfric?”

“The Dragonborn wants a meal worthy of their blood.” Ulfric tilts his head to one side. “There are two prisoners in the cells of Windhelm. Behead the thickest one. Have the chef prepare the flesh to perfection. Cure the rest. Our honored guest will be given what they want.” He catches their eye as Jorleif departs, and the man smiles faintly. “Did you think I was joking, Dragonborn? You are our _guest. _I want you to feel… pleasured.”

They can’t help but respect Ulfric Stormcloak a shred more than they should.

The following week repeats. They have dinner with the man once a week, for three weeks in a row. Each time they are given a meal befitting the _dov _they are. The seasonings are absolute, the dish is laddled with a blood-gravy and hearty bone broth, and they are gifted more, and more, and more in the way of hospitality. It’s part of Ulfric Stormcloak’s game, and though Zaammeytiid knows it is all a ruse they cannot help but fall for it in part. They ravish the delicacies, the flesh they have been forced to go so long without while a _joor_, and they make peace with the common staff that enters and exits their room. But at the end of the third week, five weeks since Galmar Stone-Fist first captured them, they are called out not for dinner but to the Jarl’s private quarters. They are sent in alone, but they whisper a breath of _laas _the second the door shuts.

Dozens and dozens of guards linger outside.

“You must give me some credit,” Ulfric emerges from an adjacent, joined side-room dressed in fine fur robes, every bit elegant as a Jarl should be. “I am not foolish enough to leave you alone with me, Zaammeytiid.”

“Regardless of how the night progresses.” The _dov _person stares at him when he approaches, a smile on his lips.

“Oh, I would never let you think about it if that happened. I would keep you busy.” Ulfric’s eyes betray the longing, the want, the _need _he feels. They remember the look, but Ondolemar’s was a violent one of desperation. They can see Ulfric wants what they can offer, but he seeks it willingly. “You are astute.”

“_Dov _do not live long on the ground.” The supposed Dragonborn takes his hand when offered, primarily out of instinct. They gasp in surprise when the Jarl pulls them flush against his chest. Their eyes rise to meet his. “You dare touch me, _joor?_”

“You dance?” The Jarl doesn’t acknowledge their question. He doesn’t wait, either, but simply starts into the movements of a routine they partially know. Their steps are clumsy and lacking; they do not possess the muscle memory instilled by hours of dance taught by a jester.

But they start to remember. They pick up on the steps. They begin to move against Ulfric with more nimbleness than initially presented. He grins as they dance, one hand squeezing their hip and the other their hand. Their eyes do not move off his; they know better than to look at their feet. By the time the two are done he has moved against them too much for them not to exhale sharply and breath faster. Zaammeytiid straightens up and backs away after. The man doesn’t try to keep them.

“Where did you learn to dance, Dragonborn?” Ulfric stares. Part of him is transfixed. Part of Zaammeytiid enjoys the rush and thrill it brings to them, knowing they can spur the mortal into such a hopeless state.

They cross their arms and look to the side. “I was taught by a jester long ago.”

“A fool?”

_“My_ fool. _Dii mey._” They grit their teeth at their own words. The hurt in them is evident. They see Ulfric’s eyes flicker with something.

“How old are you, Dragonborn? Twenty-nine?” He takes a step toward them, then another, until he can peer at their face a foot away.

“How old do I look?” Is Zaammeytiid’s response.

Ulfric’s eyes are greedy. “Not a day over thirty. The Divines blessed you a long life, I hope.”

“The Divines did nothing for me,” the _dov _person snaps their head to look at him. They hiss the words. “I am endless as I am cursed, _beyn. _I am of the Dragonborn, a plundered thu’um for which they shout until the next comes to be. I am far, far older than _thirty, _with all the _resets!_”

They expect him not to know what they mean, to turn them away or to retire for the evening, but instead he caresses their cheeks. His voice is soft and sweet and tender. “…I know about the… _repeats._ As do you, yes?”

They stiffen.

“I am not your… enemy,” Ulfric’s words are soothing.

They can't help lean into his touch and kiss him. It's a brief spike of heat in their abdomen; then they snap back to their senses and draw back from the man. He's smiling. They look at him and state, “We will talk another time, _joor_.”

“Enjoy your evening, Dragonborn.” The Jarl opens the door to his chambers, and they leave without another word.

They reflect on it for hours the next day. They count their heartbeat, grimace at the heat in their cheeks, and consider not only their circumstances but the words of both Jarl Ulfric and Sanguine from the time they saw him last.

_It is true. I have desires. I could satiate them. _The _dov _person dresses for the evening early, in a thick, dark-green gown which is just as annoying to button up as it is to wrestle arms through the sleeves. It sticks to their torso and they scowl at the obtuse facets of the attire.

When they meet Ulfric Stormcloak for dinner, they make a point of whispering _laas _in front of him. His eyes give nothing away. They are surprised to guards do not wait in droves at the exits of the room, and that the only man around is the chef in the adjacent kitchen. They turn to Ulfric and take his arm when offered; they let him walk them to their seat. “You are a fool, Ulfric Stormcloak. You keep no guards on hand.”

“You are not a prisoner, Zaammeytiid. In spite what your name stands for.”

“If I chose to walk outside Windhelm’s gates, would you let me?” Zaammeytiid takes a seat. Ulfric sits next to them and the two are left alone. They furrow their brows and tilt their head to one side. “I need an answer, _joor._”

“You can leave as you wish.” Ulfric states without hesitation. He leans back in his seat and turns to look at the chef when the latter strides to the table and serves the two a decadent stew. He offers a grunt of thanks and waves the chef away. “You could shout again, Zaammeytiid. Use it on me. See the guards and their places? No. For there are none _tonight_. I am a foolish man on a foolish course. I won’t lie; I seek your blessing on both the battlefield and the bed. But I do not believe in forcing you to bend your knee to my name. If you wish to pursue this—It must be your own choice. If you say no I must accept it.”

The _dov _person snorts. They shake their head. “You intend to seduce me through fine wine and dancing? To keep me here through feasts of flesh?”

“I want to show you,” the man leans over and takes their hand in his. He brings it to his lips and kisses one knuckle. “What it’s like… to be _devoured_ by the blood and sweat of Skyrim.”

They pull their hand back and push their seat from the table. They stand. He does the same.

“Dance with me, Zaammeytiid.” The Jarl states.

Their face is red. They shut their eyes. Their mind is made up, but they continue the conversation. “And if I choose to strike you down?”

“Then I die smiling.” Ulfric’s words are deep and low.

“And if the chef hears us?” Zaammeytiid faces him and looks up at his face. The man pulls them to him and caresses their cheeks. They allow their hands to rise to his chest, fingering the robes with a deep, heart-pounding need to copulate. “If Windhelm knows?”

“Then they _bow _at our feet.” Ulfric hisses. “Soon all of Skyrim shall follow.”

“You do not know what you tangle with, Stormcloak,” They kiss him, and they let him kiss them back, and they whisper against the man’s lips. “You are a _mey _to play this card so soon. I'll show you how foolish you are.”

“So be it.” He’s unbuttoning their gown. They're unlacing his breeches.

They let him strip the dress off their form. It falls to the ground in a heap. The cold palace air rushes to their skin and they don’t care as their body melts into the touch of Ulfric Stormcloak. His lips leave deep bites across their neck, their jaw, and lips. They hiss and tangle hands in his hair as his mouth makes to suck lower and lower. His hands rip the brassoire on their chest free and he latches on to every inch of flesh he can find. He intends to take all they can give that night and they want to give it to him.

When his robes come off and his naked, strong form stands over them, they lose themself in the stone table pressed against their back. The aroma of the two’s stew becomes a savory scent splattered across the table floor. In the haste to make room for _everything, _neither eats an ounce. Ulfric stares down at Zaammeytiid, at the golden hair framing their face and their gleaming silver eyes. He grins, grabs their legs, and parts them. “You should never been given such a heinous name. _Zaammeytiid.” _He growls each syllable when his hips shift and penetrate their form.

They shudder and twitch. It’s what they needed, wanted, were nigh of _begging _for. Their hands clench and they breath out loudly at the Nord’s presence inside them. It’s not as Cicero was when they and Kara shared a body; the _joor slen _of this form is different. Everything feels like _them_. Ulfric Stormcloak’s connection with them feels fulfilling, ravishing, as if they are truly one with _him _instead. The part of them that seeks his demise, his doom, his _blood, _the _dov, _is temporarily shushed in pursuit of wanton cries as the man rolls his hips. They shift their hips to meet his with a _smack. _He growls and grunts and presses himself over and into their form against the dining table. It’s electrifying.

Their legs spasm. They feel his lust through the clenching of his teeth, the demands of their name on his lips, and the desperation of his hips rocking into their own again, again, again. They throw their head from side to side and shake in his grasp as he holds unto their hips to guide himself into a frenzy. Even without foreplay, they are needy enough to be slick and accepting. They want him so badly they taste it in their mouth. They arch their back on the table and roar when he growls. He grabs their wrists and pulls them unto him, backward, off the table and unto his chair. Their head lays back and they look at him; he hisses and gobbles their lips with his own in lust-fueled kisses. When his hands grab their waist and move them off and unto him, they squirm and shudder.

“Talos help me, I want your body,” Ulfric’s whisper is vicious. He bites their shoulder and slams their hips unto his in rougher, rowdier movements. Their hair dances from each thrust and their muscles clench down on him in a way that prompts Zaammeytiid to sing his name. The Nord howls his need to finish and begins to become sloppy; his pelvis hits their with a force that makes their legs spasm, his hands squeeze their chest until their moans are screams, and he snaps the words at them. “Tell me—_Tell me—_Who you want—What you want—_Zaammeytiid!” _

He reaches the edge of orgasm and howls as his hips buck into theirs from below. His arms wrap around their waist and they bellow in a long, pleased shout as Ulfric holds them to his hips and rides out the orgasm in weaker and weaker thrusts. They feel their muscles squeeze him and his lips touch their neck. They pant and let pleasure sing a choir across every inch of their body as he continues to press himself into them and bury every hint of the affair in the deepest part he can reach.

The man looks at them. His smile is wicked and dominating. “I hope they heard us, Zaammeytiid. If not…”

Zaammeytiid moans against him when his hips begin to rock again. Their entire body is sensitive to the point it almost _hurts_. They exhale sharply. “Again, _joor?_”

“Do you _want_ to, Dragonborn?” Ulfric offers with a roll of hips.

_“Take me. Pahlok mey.”_ The _dov _person hisses. The noise becomes a howl of need as Ulfric shifts, pulls out, stands, and walks the two to his throne.

He bends them over it and grips their posterior with both hands. The man’s voice rumbles in pleasure. “Zaammeytiid… Your company is to die for.” He thrusts into them and groans when Zaammeytiid yowls in pleasure. He tightens his grasp on their hips and rocks them into the throne over and over.

The sensitivity in their body is too much to last as long the first time. Zaammeytiid’s knees wobble and they struggle to keep themself propped up. Their vision blurs from the haze of lust as they submit for the Jarl of Windhelm in pursuit of a brief moment of passion. A hand snakes around to their front and Ulfric touches and massages the hood of nerves on their front; he hisses in satisfaction at the individual’s gasps of euphoria. His fingers trace circles around the nerves before he pinches, rubs, and presses it. It’s a greedy hunt to hear them say his name, and they can’t last long before their body rocks with a second orgasm and they collapse on the throne screaming a name.

Ulfric’s remaining thrusts are a torture they want to repeat over and over again. It takes another minute for him to climax and he becomes more desperate and frantic to fill them with everything he can. He howls and grunts and snaps at them in erratic thrusts, jerking motions, and finally with the slam of his pelvis against theirs as he arches his back and presses himself into them. They moan loudly and press against the stone throne while the man climaxes into their otherwise idle form. Sweat rolls off both their bodies. He pulls out of them with a plop and looms over them, panting. They sit up and look at him. He pulls them into a kiss and hisses the words, “I want you all to myself.”

“_Gol hah, _ Ulfric Stormcloak,” Zaammeytiid says softly. They feel the man stiffen and they pull back in time to smile. _“Sleep__, mey joor._ You played your cards too soon._”_

The nude Nord’s body goes limp in their arms. They fondly caress his face and leave a kiss on his nose before standing, stretching, and wobbling back to the wrecked table. They use napkins to wipe up the mess between their legs. They don not their gown but the barest minimum of Ulfric’s many garments. His inner robes are wonderfully baggy, easy to move in, and provide ample covering for both their torso, legs, and arms opposed to the heavy button-up _dress. _For all the man tried to hide it, Zaammeytiid does not shy from the fact he associated them with a _woman _when they are not, regardless of their own physical characteristics. They huff and resist the urge to kick the dish of fallen stew, _slen, _across the dining hall.

In another life, were they not _dov _but a weak _joor,_ they might have entertained the idea of fancying Ulfric Stormcloak. He is a man with many things going for him, and his attempt to woo them might have succeeded if his patience lasted longer than simply _weeks_. It has only been five weeks since they were initially captured by Galmar Stonefist, and it is not enough time for them to consider recognizing him as mate. They think of all the thoughts with the same wicked smile, not a gleam of remorse in their eyes as they take the man’s sheathed shortsword and attach it to their hip.

_You are not Cicero, Ulfric Stormcloak. No matter how much I enjoyed our dancing. _They think back to the time the leader of the rebellion asked them where they learned to dance, as if they could think of anything but lust and Cicero’s damn motley in that moment. They pause and glance at the naked, unconscious man on the throne. He’s peaceful, and the desire to kill him presents itself once more. They hold themself back not out of consideration for his life, but out of awareness that their shout lasts only so long. The _dov_, the adult with a vicious, malevolence written in their blood, walks to the double doors of the palace and breaths.

_“Hin kah fen kos bosnaar, _Ulfric Stormcloak._"_


	12. on the way home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara, vex, and rune travel to solitude and track down gulum-ei. kara makes a deal with an unsavory figure to get a few seconds of life back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh so vex gets kissed against her will in this right at the part where gulum-ei and her leave the tavern and kara follows  
and theres a brief mention of domestic violence when kara talks about her family at the beginning  
just a warning  
pls read with care
> 
> i love u all

The presence of dragons in Skyrim makes the trek to Solitude far more inconvenient than any of them want. Kara grits her teeth between occasional rants and raves as the trio spends two weeks bypassing dragons across the Rift, Eastmarch, through the Pale, and ultimately into the region the city of Solitude comes home. It’s a tedious feat requiring constant horse thefts, nighttime travels, and the use of Sullivan as bait on more than one occasion. The terrain the three traverse ventures from the heated rock pools and forests of the Rift to the marshes and rivers of southern Eastmarch, to the snow-kissed plains of northern Eastmarch and to the bleak, weary grounds of the Pale. Kara is both grateful and saddened the group doesn’t come across any _jesters _while on foot through the Pale. She misses Cicero and the Brotherhood; just because Sahkriimar can’t face them doesn’t mean Kara is the same.

_They were my family once. _She thinks one evening, under a skyscape of stars and soft clouds.

“You seem distracted,” Vex’s words are blunt and interrupt any reflecting Kara contemplates on. The two women glance at the other, each on their own horse with Rune on a smaller steed behind the lot. Vex grips the reins of her brown-pelted mare and huffs. “Kara.”

“I was thinking of,” and she pauses, a silhouette of Oblivion against the night sky. Kara’s red-brown eyes dim. “My family.”

“You have a family? Fancy that,” Rune’s comment does not go unnoticed but the man can’t see her scowl.

“Well, you going to share what happened to them?” It’s not so much a _suggestion _as it is an _order. _

Kara’s brows scrunch up and she huffs. “Probably not.”

“You’re oozing of it, c’mon,” Vex tilts her head to the side and snorts; her lovely eyes betray her curiosity. “Kara.”

_“Fine,_ if you _insist,” _but she’s not upset; Kara looks to the side and considers what is and isn’t too much information to say. “I was part of an organization a long time ago.”

“Oh, boy, I can see where this is going—” Rune rides his horse up to trot saddleside to both ladies’ mares. He grins ear-to-ear and glances between them. “Want to wager, Vex? I’ll put ten gold pieces this involves at least _one _lover.”

“Don’t answer that, Vex,” Kara warns with a huff. She shakes her head. “Even if its yes, don’t answer it.”

“I have more respect than to wager on your love life with you around.” Vex’s retort is too calm to be true, but Kara would rather sigh than continue dwelling on it.

The Dragonborn looks forward, where only the moonlight lights the road their horses trot along. “The organization wasn’t my _blood _family. But my blood family was never really… family. So—”

“Yeah, yeah, never knew my blood family either, kind of on the same page there.”

“Stop interrupting her!” Vex snaps and glares at the Imperial man. Rune huffs and rides ahead of the two. Vex peers at Kara and nods at her to continue; the Imperial woman looks sincere in wanting to know.

Kara smiles faintly. “It’s not like Rune’s family, though. He washed up on a beach? Something of the sort?”

_“Shipwreck!”_ Rune calls from ahead.

“Thanks,” Kara shouts back before she laughs and shakes her head. “Well, my blood family didn’t have a _shipwreck, _they simply… How can I put this lightly? Utter crock of _shit._”

Vex whistles. The woman runs a hand through her white hair and grimaces. “That bad?”

“My older brother was best friends with a piece of shit that later became my husband.”

“You’re _married?”_ The Imperial’s face drops and Vex stares at Kara with utter horror.

_“Was_ married,” Kara corrects her. She feels something in her stomach when the shock on Vex’s face turns into relief. It’s a subtle emotion that she can’t quite pinpoint. She pauses and peers at her fellow guild member with two raised brows until Vex glances away. Kara looks forward and shrugs. “My mom was not… the best person, or role model to me or my brother growing up. My father abandoned us. Died of liver failure two years and three months ago, if I remember correctly. I don’t think of them much now.”

“What happened to your husband?” Vex bites her lip. The woman stares until Kara catches her eye and both look at each other under the moonlight. “If you’re gonna continue sharing. I don’t want to listen if you ain’t up to talk about him.”

“He…” The Dragonborn grabs her head and hisses. The throbs and aches and horrible, skull-splitting agony of her _murder _comes rushing back in full-force. Her body begins to shake and she feels nausea climb up her spine and rip into her chest. Weight drags her down and she clamps unto her horse’s back and neck. “Fuck—_Fuck, fuck! _I can’t—I can’t, Vex, I can’t—I still can’t—”

“Shit,” Vex curses under breath and frowns. “We can take a break, Kara, if it’s—Yeah, that sounds kinda bad—”

“_I’m fine,” _it’s a hiss and a snarl and a roar. Kara ignores Vex’s stare and grits her teeth. She forces her body to fight the feelings, forces her mind not to yield and bend and buckle to the pressure and horror and pain and _fear _that plagues her, and she makes herself sit up on the saddle. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Just—Not him. Never him. Not again. That chapter of my life is over. It’s over. He’s over.”

“He’s over,” Vex affirms, though Kara knows she doesn’t have a clue what she means. “C’mon, let’s catch up to Rune—It’ll get your mind off things.”

“He’s almost as flighty as Vipir.” Kara remarks offhand and both women laugh. She exhales sharply. “Gods. I wish… …I wish could run that fast.”

“Me too,” Vex huffs. “Lucky bastard.”

The trio make it to Solitude on the thirteenth day of travel and pay to stable their horses just outside the city’s grandiose walls. None of the group can _stand_ to hunt down their contact that evening; they wait until the next day to begin the process of surveying, hunting down, and ultimately cornering _Gulum-Ei. _They start covert; the three have brought civilian clothes to change into and wear during their time among Solitude’s populace. The Imperial-controlled city is full of citizens, merriment, and commerce bustling about to no end. Within the city’s open marketplace, Kara opts to poke around and ask some of the citizens and guards about any Argonian folks.

“Most on the docks, dunmer,” one lady tells her before shooing her from the stall.

Kara grimaces. She shoves her hands into the pockets of an apron overlaying her long red tunic. Underneath, the light armor of the Thieves Guild uniform clings to her body, but she’s taken caution to make sure the tunic itself is bulky enough to hide the armor as well as any daggers she conceals. She meets Vex at Solitude’s notorious tavern, the _Winking Skeever, _and the two meander and loiter outside. “I don’t think I’ll have much luck here. Even with other—err, _dunmer_. I stick out like a sore thumb.”

“You need to take off your armor,” Vex states quietly. The Imperial thief has her platinum-blond hair pulled back into a dainty braid, and she dons a long-sleeved, gray dress with a black scarf wrapped around her neck. The sheen of an enchanted necklace occasionally pops out around the woman’s busy. “They know you concealed _something _underneath. That shit’s clear as day.”

Kara _stares. _“I am not walking back to the inn to take off armor.”

“Then—”

“Don’t say it,” the Dragonborn cuts Vex off and holds up a finger. “Don’t tell me to strip in public, not happening!”

“I was going to suggest we find a shadowed corner… but if you insist on staying that way, then… Ugh. I got to do all the work, don’t I?” Vex hangs her head and lets out a loud, annoyed grunt. “Just—Don’t pretend to know me when you go inside. This is the place Gulum-Ei’s said to frequent. If you act conspicuous he’ll know right away. In fact—Shit, don’t go inside at all. Go back to Rune. I’ll get you two when I’m done.”

“If you think that’s best…” Kara trails off. She clears her throat and looks away when Vex enters the tavern. After waiting thirty-seconds to ensure no Vex-like screams come from the inside, she turns and strides off in the opposite direction.

In the _video game _world of _Skyrim, _Solitude is a pretty place; one of her favorite locations. When Skyrim became her reality, her world, her existence, Kara knows the world map shifted to accommodate her. The world also shifted to adjust for Sheogorath’s madness. The Prince of Madness leaves a mark where he goes, and she can’t help but think of him and his reach once she begins strolling through the city and examining all the changes: Solitude is a bigger city than before. It has districts upon districts she knows doesn’t exist in the _video game_. She sees the city’s college of Bards on one corner, heavily brimming with music and vocal talents, and at another corner she eyes a large tailor shop. Up a set of stone stairs comes the sight of Solitude’s blacksmith and fletching stall; if Kara had any real gold to her name, she knows she’d have waltzed right into the fletching shop and bought out the store.

She hates being nearly broke.

When she looks for Rune, she finds him closer to the docks on the outer edges of the city. The tall Imperial man stands in one of the alleys by a side-gate manned by four Imperial soldiers. Kara gives the brown-haired lad a smile as she strides up and looks him up and down. “You look _okay _in those, but—”

“It’s the only thing they had remotely in my size when we left.” Rune grimaces. He dons a tight pair of beige breeches that hug his thighs _way _too closely for anyone to consider normal. His blouse is neat and orderly, but the fabric is stained on the back in a way that reminds Kara of a very, very phallic object.

“I know you may be tempted to take the nearest carriage to Riften and murder Vipir and Thrynn where they stand, _but,_” Kara puts her hands up. “In their defense—I think it helps you stand out less. If people look at you it’s because you’re wearing a dick, not because you are a dick. They’ll dismiss you as a fool first, thief second.”

“Shh, shh, don’t say that so loudly—_Kara,_” Rune glance over his shoulder at the guards at the gate. None look their way. The Imperial man exhales sharply and turns back to Kara. “Look, I don’t like the _stares_. Even if it gives me this so-called _advantage _to hiding in plain sight. I’m not wearing a dick.”

“What’s wrong with wearing a dick?” The Dragonborn crosses her arms. Her poker face is bad, because Rune takes one look at her and snorts. Kara shakes her head. “Okay, okay. When we get back I’ll help you get them back. Happy?”

“No, but I’ll be okay. Honestly,” Rune pauses. He rubs his left ass cheek. Kara doesn’t look but Rune clears his throat and pats his derriere. “I’m more worried about losing my rock, Kara.”

“You brought the stone with you?? Do you take that everywhere?” Kara snorts.

“Have to. Just in case.” Rune takes the rock in question out. The small white stone doesn’t look out of the ordinary from a quick glance. Kara watches him turn it over in his palm restlessly. She frowns.

“…Rune.” The woman parts her lips. “Hey. Rune. Earth to Rune—”

_“Earth?”_ The man repeats.

“Earth, yes, it’s an expression—A _dunmer_ expression, why not,” Kara rolls her eyes and huffs. She reaches out and jabs the man in the gut. “You want to share what’s on your mind? You’re distracted.”

“Eh, so I am.” Rune admits with a shrug.

“Talk to me, then. Rune. C’mon.” The Dremora narrows her red-brown eyes. “You know, someone I was close to once happened to tell me distractions are very bad for contracts.”

“Contracts? Is that another _dunmer expression _of yours? You speak of strange things sometimes, Kara.” Rune shakes his head and groans. “Look.”

“I’m looking, yes.” She smiles.

_“Look,” _Rune repeats. “I don’t know why—By the Eight, all of this seems ludicrous to say aloud—But I have this shit in my gut that’s been hanging over my head lately. Didn’t think too much of it at first. But Delvin’s talked about a curse on the guild—And all this shit with Brynjolf—Sahkriimar—Gulum-Ei? I feel like… I don’t know. I feel like shit. I feel guilty.”

Kara’s stomach drops. She stares at the man with soft eyes, concerned and curious all in one. The woman lightly pokes his arm and peers up at him. “Why do you feel guilty, Rune?”

“I don’t know. It’s all shit, huh? Makes no sense? But I feel responsible.” The man turns his stone over at a more erratic, frequent pace. “I could barely look at Brynjolf when Vipir finally brought him in! Poor guy must have been outrunning, what was it? _Stormcloaks? _For that whole week! And yet I’m there trying not to make a bigger fool of myself ‘cause my fucking ass took _one_ look at him and—” He can’t finish the sentence. He groans and shakes his head. His free hand rubs his temples. The stone keeps turning in his other palm.

“For what it’s worth,” Kara picks the words carefully. “You did good at the time. You and Sapphire were on those ingredients and brewing a potion in no time. I think Brynjolf would’ve died without it.”

“You summoned a Daedra. The Daedra was the one that helped.” It’s a blunt sentence.

_Sanguine. _Kara exhales sharply at the thought of the _very tall _Daedric Prince and his shimmering, enchanted armor. Just the thought of him makes her heart ache with a longing she can’t fulfill.

“…So, I did. And? A lot of spellcasters do. Technically, I think atronachs are more or less non-sentient Daedra. Something along those lines.” Kara clears her throat. “But I needed that potion. I don’t know if you-Wait, _can _you use magic? At all?”

“Only in my dreams,” Rune snorts.

She frowns. “Yeah. I have no idea how to explain it to you, but magicka pools are… They take a long time to fill up when you are a novice spellcaster. It’s why so many mages wear shit to regenerate magicka faster. I didn’t have time to wait for my magicka to regenerate.”

“Hence the potion.” The Imperial nods. 

“Hence the potion, yeah,” Kara says. She glances up and down the alley for any sign of Vex; none. She frowns and shrugs, shifting her attention back to Rune. “Sometimes you can use magic without any magicka to base your spells on. But if you do that—It takes some of _you_ from you.”

“…And you lost me.”

“I have no idea how else to phrase it. So.” Kara’s smile is apologetic. “Anyways, point is—Even if _you _don’t think your actions helped, it helped. It helped me. I helped Brynjolf. Indirectly: you helped Brynjolf. Huzzah!”

“Huzzah.” Rune says the word slowly. Kara doubts he’s ever heard it before in his life and the thought makes her chuckle.

Both of them are happy when Vex finally shows her face an hour later. The three return to their inn room and Kara and Vex sit on one cot together while Rune lays down on the cot across them. Kara crosses her arms and leans back against the wall while Vex begins scrubbing make-up off her face with a wet washcloth. “Fucking weirdo.”

“He try to come unto you?” Rune snorts. Vex throws the washcloth at him; he yelps when it hits him square in the face. Kara chuckles lightly when Rune chucks it back at the Imperial thief. “Hey!”

“No shit he tried. Flatter my eyelashes, bend down too far, his eyes are on my tits in seconds.” Vex is _slightly_ drunk, Kara realizes. She didn’t notice it on the way there but when the two are side-by-side she smells mead on the woman’s breath. Kara grimaces and inches away while Vex throws her hands into the air and declares. “He bought me a drink! A _drink! _How dare he! I’ll have his fucking head! What did Sahkriimar say, huh? Something about slender? I’ll have his slender!”

Rune’s eyes bulge and he begins to howl with laughter.

Kara puts a hand on Vex’s shoulder. “That doesn’t sound as intimidating as you want it to be. Sorry.”

“I hate him.” Vex shoves a middle finger at Rune. The Imperial thief huffs and glares around the room. “But he likes my tits. Fucker wants them real bad. Give me a couple of days, I can get him talking. It’d be good if you could come next time, Kara. Make me feel better about being around bastards like that Argonian.”

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll be there.” Kara promises.

And she is—for the next six days. She attends every evening in a different, boldly-colored dress that cuts too low into her neckline for her to be comfortable with. She adorns her hair in different styles, twisting and pulling and tying it back in ways she didn’t think were possible until she tries. She watches Vex every evening repeat the routine with Gulum-Ei: the woman is truly talented at putting on a different face and personality when she wants to be. Kara eyes Vex with slight shock the first night she visits the bar, but every night after that the shock is replaced by a ping of longing she can’t quite shove away. When her eyes fall on the white-haired, laughing woman, Kara’s heart beats twice as fast. When she sees Vex smile, crack a joke, or pretend to relax, Kara feels her chest ache with a longing.

_She _wants to make Vex feel that way. _She _wants to make the woman comfortable, collected, and at ease. She wants to see Vex’s lips smile for her, because of her, and do a lot of other things when no one else is around. She feels nigh-short of shameful to think the thoughts but Kara finds she can’t stop them once they start. Vex’s persona is enticing even at a distance; Kara’s cheeks grow hot when the woman so much looks at her.

It reminds her, in a way, of Gabriella.

Kara recalls the dunmer with a frown the fifth evening; in the past cycle, she and Gabriella never got far with their relationship. Though she knows she would have wanted to, she couldn’t, because she went to find _Esbern _and get the _horn _to give to _Delphine _who she was responsible for getting murdered by _Thalmor _and… the thoughts are a mess. Kara swallows. _I don’t want to have another relationship like Gabriella. All of that was… pining, longing, wants, desires. But never acted on. I should have, but I didn’t. I should have, but I held myself back. _If she feels a certain way—She wants to try and pursue it before it fades into the horizon.

It’s with a twist of her gut that she realizes—night seven of Vex wooing the Argonian they all came to find—her thoughts of Vex and time with Vex and everything _Vex _are not going away. She’s developed _feelings, _she’s become attached, and she knows the little crush will be a pain in the ass until it can be addressed.

_Not right now. Definitely not until we get back to Riften, Gods. _Kara bites her lip. She watches Vex rise from her seat next to Gulum-Ei. The Argonian, a man with dark green scales and sharp yellow crests to match his cautious gaze, stands up and links arms with Vex. He grins crookedly at her and says something in her ear that makes Vex laugh and cling to his side. The two leave the tavern a minute later and Kara rises. She follows without so much a tip for the barkeep let alone a word to other patrons. When she exits, it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the night air. She looks up and down Solitude’s cobbled streets and catches sight of the hem of Vex’s gown before it disappears around the corner. Kara walks with speed but in silence; she doesn’t want to give away her guild mate’s cover before the time is right.

Gulum-Ei is not a private man, nor a man of honor. Kara tracks him and Vex to the docks before Gulum-Ei shoves Vex to one wall and kisses her roughly. Kara stiffens at the sight. She snaps her head and looks around for Rune—the man should’ve followed either of them, bloody Imperial—and she freezes when the man doesn’t emerge. Not from the darkness, the docks, or the damn alleys and backstreets. If Vex notices, she doesn’t show panic. The woman is good at the game and the sounds the Imperial woman makes are convincing enough to make Gulum-Ei drag the two down another alley and into a warehouse off to the side. The crash inside the warehouse that follows the door slamming shut is enough to make Kara bolt for the building.

She fumbles with the door and huffs and growls when it doesn’t give. She can hear sounds inside. She curses internally at Gulum-Ei, things have taken a turn for the worse and she will not forgive herself or Rune if the man so much lays a finger on Vex. When the door continues to stick to the frame, Kara’s hand crackles with magic. She casts _Summon Dremora _without second thought and barks out an order to Sullivan the second the Dremora butler steps through from Oblivion, “I need it open!”

“Yes, my Lady—” the obsidian-skinned creature steps back, conjures a Greatsword made of Daedric metal, and brings it on the door. Two strikes and the door snaps into thick, large pieces. Sullivan kicks it open and stands aside for Kara to enter first. He holds a polite smile and bows his head as she passes him. “Will that be all?”

“Far from it,” Kara grits her teeth.

She’s not surprised at what she finds.

It’s all too convenient for the group to have located Gulum-Ei so easily. She knows that Karliah is one step ahead of Mercer Frey and the Thieves Guild; she _knows _Gulum-Ei, likewise, thinks he is one step ahead of the guild if Karliah’s given him an ounce of information on them all. Kara knows, she knows, she _knows, _and she refuses to let emotions get the better of her when her eyes fall upon the warehouse inside. She sees Vex’s body sprawled on the floor, throat cut, with blood running _everywhere_ and soaking the woman’s attire. Gulum-Ei holds a long, ebony shortsword in his hand as he stands over Vex’s limp form. The Argonian looks up and points the shortsword at Kara and Sullivan.

“What do we have _here? _Hmm, let me guess! Judging by your scent—I’d say you are from the guild.” Gulum-Ei’s voice contains no remorse and a lot of satisfaction.

Kara yearns to see his throat filleted open and the man drown in his own blood

“Sullivan,” the woman states firmly. “Kill him. Make it painful. Make him _bleed.”_

“Of course, my Lady, I am delighted to serve by your side!” The Dremora responds with a beaming smile.

She sees no point in heeding Gulum-Ei further thoughts. The Argonian leaps backward and tumbles when Sullivan advances on him; from there it is a blur of sounds, of shapes, of noise and thoughts and _feelings _as adrenaline rocks her mind and forces her to focus on but one thing: Vex. She reaches the woman’s side in seconds and shudders at the still-warm body in her arms. The cut is deep; Vex’s injuries are lethal and she doesn’t have the equipment or items needed to heal her properly. She lacks restoration magic. She knows _not enough, not enough, not enough _and it enrages her.

Not even the head of Gulum-Ei Sullivan presents to her makes her happy.

“I’m recasting the spell to summon you in thirty seconds. Return with a healing potion, Sullivan.” The woman’s words are empty. She can’t manage emotion in her state. She wants only blood, only violence, but she knows neither can bring Vex back.

“…Yes, Lady Kara.” She’s grateful Sullivan holds his tongue because she doubts she could restrain herself from slaughtering all of Solitude if he made a comment about Vex’s state. Sullivan is dispelled in a sphere of purple magic.

But she doesn’t recast the spell. She knows Sullivan would come back, give her the damn potion, and she’d pour it into Vex’s dead mouth and pray for something that cannot be attained. She knows if Sullivan doesn’t appear then it would be Sanguine and he would be too distracting for her to get anything done. She can’t rely on the two Daedra she knows, so she turns to a third source of magic. She sucks in a breath, shuts her eyes tightly, and pleads a whisper, _“Sheogorath.”_

It’s an asinine idea. She can almost picture Sanguine in her head, telling her exactly how much of an asinine idea it is. She doesn’t care. She calls upon magicka she doesn’t have, and she converts more of her Daedric power into raw magic to power the spell before the energy _pours _from her hands in a sheet of green and orange and white and _bathes _the room with her _Summon Dremora _spell. She drops Vex’s corpse in the shock of the sight; Vex’s body disappears into white nothingness. She looks around and swallows nervously. In front of her, in a two-toned suit and looking quite amused, is the very Prince of Madness responsible for her death, demise, the repeats, the cycles, the paradox, the _everything _that is madness and chaos and illogical facets of Skyrim’s world.

“Look who it is! Oh, ho, ho! Look at this sight!” It’s not the Hero of Kvatch, or it is but only the Hero’s corrupted aspects, because this Sheogorath is cruel and amused and impatient. He taps a long, strange staff on the ground; the rod is a dark, old wood-like substance while on the top rests a black stone of most peculiar variety. Sheogorath strides forward and circles Kara’s form without a hint of fear. “I can’t believe it! He did it, done it, _wow! _You’re a Prince, my dear, a Prince! Look at you!”

“I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” Kara states quietly. Her eyes seethe in anger and she hates how much the emotions _delight _the deadly man in front of her.

“I’ll listen. For you, and _only _you, yes?” Sheogorath smiles widely.

“I need help.” The woman grits her teeth. “I need _you _to help me—”

“A trade, oh my, how compelling, how strange, how utterly—”

“Mad? Yeah. Ha. Ha.” Kara shuts her eyes. It helps not to look at Sheogorath, but she envisions him in her mind all the same. “Lord of the Shivering Isles—Bearer of the Crown of Madness—I come to you offering an exchange! A brief _moment_ of your power,” and it’s degrading, humiliating, _nonsense _but she kneels and bows her head and forces her tone to become that of a desperate, pleading offender begging for a second chance. “I know you are capable of many things. You hold power over the universe itself, over Time and it’s turning!”

“Does the itty-bitty Prince want the Prince of Madness to mess with Time? _Time? _For _her _benefit?” Sheogorath chuckles at the thought. He clutches his staff, the _Wabbajack, _tightly in both hands. “Hmm. Hmm. _Hmm.”_

“I will offer the power I have—”

“Oh?” The words make the Prince stop, pause, and reconsider leaving or smiting her on the spot. Sheogorath’s eyes narrow. “Elaborate, my dearest, I need you to speak _up._”

“You know what kind of bullshit I’m talking about!” Kara snaps her head up and growls. She can only manage the helpless persona so long; she is no Vex in that regard. “I need you to rewind time a bit! _Just a bit! _Just a moment, Sheogorath! A minute or so! To right before Vex and Gulum-Ei walked in here! To right before then! I know you can do it! And I know you want power! All Daedra do! Even,” Kara’s eyes dim. “Me.”

“So! You offer what again? What exactly? Tell me these lovely words—” the Daedric Prince sits on nothing and crosses his legs. He’s entertained by the woman’s antics and she despises him for it.

“Sanguine siphoned half of his power as a Prince into creating and giving me this body. I know you want it. You want power. You crave it, it’s in your blood.” When Sheogorath holds up a finger, she shuts up. Kara knows better than to push a Daedric Prince on a matter, most of the time.

She watches Sheogorath toy with the idea in his head. His glowing white eyes are horribly irritating to her and she shifts her gaze to the side after a minute.

“No.” Sheogorath grins at her jaw-drop. He points the _Wabbajack _at her and pauses. “—But! _But! _I’m willing to _negotiate, _my dear, I am a _businessman _after all. At least when it comes to my travel blogging; Venice is lovely this time of year.”

_Stop talking about my world, _Kara longs to say. She doesn’t.

“I think if I were to take _all _of your Daedric power, you would die. You need a little bit—Or else that beautiful Dremora body of yours will shatter and tear itself apart. I’m a man of madness and malicious words but you _must _understand I have a fanbase to cater to and they’re interested in seeing me be the best I can be. A true hero!” Sheogorath nods firmly and claps for himself. He straightens upright and gives her a scowl. “I can’t let you die. I want to see everything _fall _apart. Not for you, my dear, but for my loyal champion! The dragon soul that tried to leave me behind for a _Night Mother. _Gross. Gross. Gross! Yuck!”

Kara rises to her feet. She holds her tongue when he goes off on a rant about how despicable Sithis’ bride is. Part of her wants to defend her former deity, to step in and make Sheogorath eat his own words, but she restrains herself. He’s a dangerous entity and she’s nowhere near capable of defeating him on her own. She still needs his help. She waits until he’s finished his spiel before she pauses and quietly asks. “What would you want, then? Most of my power?”

“Yes. And! A condition!” Sheogorath points the _Wabbajack _back at her. He smiles. “I understand you came across a rare spell tome recently. Funny how that works. I write, you _read, _I mess with the concept of reality, you learn a spell, badda bing badda boom, all of it. But there’s a problem. No offense, really, but I’m not that big a fool out of the office. I know what you can summon, Kara. _So, _my _proposal—_”

His eyes become cold.

“I will rip your magicka from you. Most of the Daedric essence that flows through those veins of yours. And, in exchange, I will… Ah, how would you put it? _Rewind _time? Yes! I’ll do that. I’ll give you this little favor. And you won’t ever speak a word of this to Sanguine. Oh, no, wait,” the Prince grins ear-to-ear. “I want you to forget Sanguine.”

“Excuse me?” Kara’s fists clench. “What kind of a trade is that?!”

“Fine! Fine! You can keep your magicka—But not the spell. No, I want that spell _gone. _I want your contact with Oblivion severed, the touch of Sanguine expelled from your mind, and that glorious Daedric essence—_mine. I want it. _These are my conditions, Sloan.” The way he says her _Earth _name makes Kara nauseous. Sheogorath peers at her with eyes of a dark power far beyond anything she could ever achieve as a simple Dremora. “Yes or no?”

_But Vex will die without it. _Her heart aches.

_I’ll forget Sanguine. _Her soul screams.

But she can run into him again. She knows she can, somehow, somewhere, she knows the two have a connection in the way they share a deep Daedric bond with one another, the power of one Prince fueling both bodies and keeping her alive and breathing. She knows he’ll realize something’s wrong when she doesn’t summon Sullivan again. She knows he’ll put his own conclusions together, and she’ll probably have to correct him down the line. She knows. She knows. She knows. If it’s an emergency—He’ll show up. Whether she remembers or not, she knows he’ll be there when she needs him most.

She can’t let Vex die. Not after she’s lost so many others. Not after Veezara, not after Cicero, not after Gabriella and all the others she came to love so dearly in the past universe cycle.

“I accept your terms.” Kara whispers. She shuts her eyes, and in a second the world shifts and she’s left alone in a warehouse.

It’s dark. It dawns on her immediately she’s done something she can’t take back—and she can’t quite remember what it is she’s given up—but her thoughts are pushed backward. She hears footsteps and noises outside; Kara ducks behind a crate as the door opens and shuts. She can hear the noises Vex makes and her gut curls in anticipation; Sheogorath’s kept to his word—Vex is alive again and she has a second chance to keep her that way.

_“Skeever!”_ Gulum-Ei grabs Vex by the throat and squeezes. “Like I would let a bitch sway me so easily!”

The man’s known all along they were Thieves Guild members, Kara doesn’t doubt that. She tears from her hiding place and leaps unto the Argonian’s back. Her nails go for his throat and she pulls back on his head as he howls in surprise and releases Vex. The woman tumbles to the ground but jumps to her feet as Gulum-Ei slams Kara into a wall and forces her to release him. Gulum-Ei pulls the ebony shortsword on the two while Vex and Kara circle him slowly.

“Nice of you to finally interrupt, Kara,” Vex’s sarcasm makes her want to cry but Kara keeps her eyes dry and peeled on the Argonian in front of them.

“Gulum-Ei.” Kara grits her teeth. “You know who we are. Why we’re here—”

“Yes, yes, something about something I don’t care to remember!” The man spits at their feet. “It doesn’t matter, now does it? Little Mercer Frey’s sent a bunch of thugs to beat up poor ol’ me! A shame you two pretties made up the raiding party, I’ll feel bad cutting up those faces!”

“Oblivion, this man thinks he has a chance?” Vex laughs. She grins ear-to-ear. “You think a pointy sword will fare against a nimble fist?”

“Vex, _wait,”_ Kara snaps loudly enough to make the white-haired Imperial glare at her. She ignores Vex’s look and exhales sharply. “Yeah, we’re from the Guild! Calm your tits, we’re not here to kill you.”

“Oh? And what is it you’re here for, then?” The Argonian’s eyes narrow.

“Your buyer’s name! Identify the buyer and we’ll forget everything!” She does her best to imitate the official line of dialogue poised as one of the options for players in _Skyrim _during the Scoundrel’s Folly quest. Kara has zero idea if she sounds convincing, but she keeps her eyes peeled for the slightest movement while Vex growls impatiently from the side. In a way, Vex reminds her of Sahkriimar; Kara bites back any sign of weakness from the thought. Her former _dov _can be thought of later.

To her _utter _surprise, it works. Gulum-Ei hisses through clenched teeth, “All right. If either of you are lying—”

“We’re not. All we want is the buyer’s information. Anything you can tell us.” Kara exhales. “We go our separate ways, never speak of this again, life goes on, and nobody’s dead. Okay?”

“Fine, fine. Had I known the deal would bring me this much trouble I’d have never accepted the gold.” Gulum-Ei sheathes his shortsword. Kara’s shoulders slump but she continues to watch him for the slightest hint of movement. The Argonian looks from one woman to the next. “I was approached by a woman who wanted me to act as the broker for something _big_. She flashed a bag of gold in my face and said all I had to do was pay Aringoth for the estate. I brought him the gold and walked away with her copy of the deed.”

“Did she say why she was doing this?” Kara finds the words come easier now. She steps to Vex’s side and tenses. “Gulum-Ei.”

“No! Nope! Not a clue! I tend not to ask too many questions when I’m on the job. I’m sure you understand. However, I did notice she was _quite _angry and it was being directed at Mercer Frey.”

“Karliah.” The Dremora says the name to both skip Brinewater Grotto and confirm her guild’s suspicions on the culprit. She is satisfied when color drains from Gulum-Ei’s face. He pulls the shortsword out and Vex growls but Kara holds an arm out to keep Vex from moving forward at the man. “…So it is her, then.”

“I—I can’t be _sure—” _Gulum-Ei spits, but his reaction tells the two all they need to know.

Kara smiles faintly. “Relax, relax. Gulum-Ei. Mercer doesn’t have to know. This is all a secret between us three, okay? Your involvement with _Karliah—” _She says the name again for good measure. “—It’s a secret. Between us _four, _actually, if you count our colleague hidden in the city. I recommend none of us try anything foolish. Let’s just _relax._”

The Argonian doesn’t believe all of her words, but the statement sinks in enough to make him hesitate. He lowers his shortsword and growls. “I don’t wish to see your kind again, not in this city.”

“That can be arranged. We won’t bother you, _promise._” Kara lies through her teeth.

“I want you to leave immediately. You and all your—Your _colleagues._”

“We’ll go, then. Okay?” Kara holds up her hands. She keeps her voice low and calm, gentle and soothing. She fights the urge to rip the man’s head off as she backs to the door, unlocks it, and slips out with Vex following. The two break into a run through the alleys and back streets; the night air is cold on their bodies but Kara doesn’t give two shits about the weather as she and Vex sprint through Solitude and back to the inn. There they find Rune, asleep with a bottle of mead in hand.

When Vex balls her fists up, Kara puts a hand on her shoulder. Vex leers at her, “He almost got us _killed! _I ought to throw him off the docks!_” _

“No.” Kara walks to Rune’s bedside and holds up the bottle. She sniffs it and cringes. “…This is tainted. No way this brand of mead normally smells so rancid. Someone drugged him.”

“How can you tell that?” Her guild member isn’t convinced.

“The day Mercer told all of us about Karliah.” Kara sits on the cot opposite Rune’s bed. Vex sits next to her. “…Right before then, Rune said he was going to drink mead and ‘hit the hay.’ After Mercer talked to all of us with Brynjolf—I went to check on Rune in the Flagon because he wasn’t at the bunk hall. He had the same brand of mead when I found his ass passed out at the bar. That mead didn’t smell like this, and no way would Vekel ever sell expired shit to his source of income.”

“That Karliah—Or whoever she’s working with—She’s one step ahead of us. Oblivion!” Vex curses and looks away.

“When he wakes up, we need to leave. Head to Riften. All that fun dipping and dodging around dragons trying to eat us alive,” the Dremora grunts and leans her head back. She glances at the Imperial thief beside her but Vex doesn’t give her so much a look. Kara’s eyes soften. “You know, Vex. I’m glad you didn’t actually die.”

“Like I’d have left him kill me,” Vex snorts. The woman meets her gaze at last and the two stare at each other a moment. “…Your eyes look kind of different. Were they always that brown? They remind me of a forest, kind of. The kind I used to walk around when I was young.”

The Dremora blinks and flushes faintly. She doesn’t know if Vex means it as a compliment or not but she takes it as such anyways. Vex nudges her for an answer to the question and she shrugs in response. “Listen, I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“They’re nice.” Vex huffs. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. Lots of folks have brown eyes, Kara.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Kara snorts and smiles. “Hey, you think Mercer would mind if we took a detour on the way back?”

“Probably. Man wants us back soon as possible.” Vex crosses her arms.

Kara grins.

“…What do you have in mind?” The Imperial thief eyes her with scrutiny. “Kara?”

“Oh, nothing big. I was just thinking we ought to stop somewhere and restock our supplies. Say,” the Dremora closes her eyes and inhales deeply. “Windhelm?”


	13. shouting for reinforcements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in escaping windhelm, they discover someone that forces their plans to change: a new dovahkiin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first half of this was originally part of chapter 11 but i decided it warranted its own chapter  
this technically takes place directly after ch 11, and ch 12 technically takes place during the time spent at the palace of the kings
> 
> enjoy

_"Hin kah fen kos bosnaar, _Ulfric Stormcloak.” They don’t look back as they open the double doors and utter a sharp cry of, _“Feim zii gron!”_

The shout of _Become Ethereal _feels ironic to them as they walk away from the Palace of the Kings. It is the same shout that sparked their escape from the high elves. Snow falls overhead and they take a sharp left at the road's fork. Despite knowing the guards cannot perceive them under a dusk-lit sky and Become Ethereal’s guise, and despite knowing most guards are not close to the Palace of Kings’ main entrance, Zaammeytiid does not take chances. They veer into the Gray Quarter, the district of Windhelm known best for dozens of gray elf refugees taking up residence.

Snow kisses their forehead. They inhale the smells of the Gray Quarter and enjoy the crisp air. As the sky transitions to a pitch black, they begin to dance from shadow to shadow. They are delighted to hear no major alarms raise across the city. They have no doubt Ulfric’s famous temper shows whenever the man wakes, but it greatly amuses them that the man is forced to act _tactically _to respond to the night’s events. It will surely wound his pride, to think he can bed a _dov _but be twisted and tricked in return, and they hope the wound goes as deep as his hate for the Empire.

_May it teach him the lust of a joor is different than the mating of dovah. _Zaammeytiid snorts.

As it becomes early morning, the presence of guards increases to the point that Zaammeytiid becomes forced to repeat the use of _laas _over and over to stay one step ahead of patrols and searchers. They don’t recall the layout of Windhelm well enough to navigate to the gates, and they don’t risk running into the wall of guards they see looming the outer edges of the city. They duck behind buildings, skirt through back alleys, and smile gleefully whenever they outsmart a guard trying to turn a corner faster than they can leap back into shadows. Their joy is only dampened by the cold.

Even as _dov, _their useless _joor slen _is too weak to handle the temperature! Though Ulfric’s robes are lightly insulated, it is not enough. They cut the game of cat-and-_dov _short and seek out an abandoned building among the many residences of Windhelm. They find a large, two-story structure hanging off to the side of one of Windhelm’s districts. It’s dark in the windows and a lock on the door indicates the structure is exactly what they need. They use the blade of Ulfric’s sword to jimmy the lock. When it doesn’t budge, they turn to sheer force to break the damn thing off. Zaammeytiid sheathes the sword, slips inside, and shoves the door shut behind them.

The house has been abandoned for years. They effortlessly tear apart planks of wood and slams them into the door to jam it from the inside. When satisfied, the _dov _person steps back and grimaces at the dust and muck of it all. They pause when, faintly, a familiar voice fills their head.

_Phantom… _

Their eyes widen. They freeze. Their heart begins to scream at them to run, to yell, to flee, to do _anything _but stay in a bloody haunted house, but the voice continues. It compels them to wait and _listen. _

_Kill…_

Zaammeytiid looks around the home. They unsheathe their sword and poke about the first floor. There’s nothing aside from a small tin of frost salts. They shove the tin into a pocket of the robes and cut down cobwebs on the way to a staircase resting against one wall. As they climb the stairs, they utter a soft _laas. _A single, tiny red blob of life fades in and out of their vision to indicate the presence of one individual on the second floor. Zaammeytiid grits their teeth; they refuse to acknowledge a _joor _scared them. They climb the stairs, stride across the empty, decrepit second-floor’s hall and common room, and they walk to the door they saw the blob present at. One hand rises to the door knob and they inhale deeply.

_Allegiance. _The word rings in their head as they rip open the door.

It opens into what was once a masters bedroom or a large bedchamber, and they stare breathlessly at the sight before them. A young boy, no more than ten, with a Nord’s complexion and dark brown hair, leans over a skeleton composed of varying bones. Though the skeleton is arranged to resemble the anatomy of a human, elf, or orc, the bones indicate points of origin from animals as well as that of upright races.

“Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me…” The boy speaks as if in a trance, wholeheartedly focused and set on the words of what they desperately wish they did not recognize. They lower their sword and walk up behind him. They look over his shoulder and watch him as he stabs a flimsy make-shift knife into a small human effigy. A circle of candles surrounding the scene provides enough light for the _dov _person to see how emaciated and thin the child is as he continues to stab, stab, _stab _and chant. “For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear!”

“The Black Sacrament.” Zaammeytiid whispers the words.

The child jumps and scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t look afraid, and for once Zaammeytiid is too stunned to care about his lack of fear at their _dov _presence. The boy looks even worse for wear when he faces them; they can see his lack of hygiene and meals shine in his sickly skin and tiny figure. The fact they have to look _down _at him is extra cause for concern.

“You came! You came! It worked!” The boy cries tears of joy and latches unto Zaammeytiid’s side. They look down at him, speechless, as he continues to cry and weep in happiness. “I knew you’d come, I just knew it! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over! With the body, and the… Things! The things! And then you came! You’re _here! _An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood!_” _

He’s so happy and Zaammeytiid knows their words will crush his soul. Though they can’t recall where this path goes, they know it ends with the Dark Brotherhood and that means _Cicero_. They can’t stand the thought of seeing the fool and him not being _their _fool.

“I’m not—” Zaammeytiid stiffens when the boy looks up at them with a giddy, gleeful smile. They pause. “I’m not from the Dark Brotherhood.”

“No, no, of _course_, of course not—You can’t _admit _you are—That’s why you’re disguised, why you’re wearing _that,”_ the boy declares with a strangely serious nod. “You’re _definitely _not an assassin from the Dark Brotherhood. Definitely not.” The child winks, as if it’s the worlds greatest secret between the two.

The _dov _person grimaces. The prolonged contact makes them uncomfortable; _joor _children are strange creatures that need warning labels. “Release me, tiny _joor._”

“I’m not named _Joor_,” and the boy speaks the word of _dov _speech so effortlessly that they almost mistake the word for another dragon in the area. “I’m Aventus Aretino! You’re here to take my—”

“…Tiny _joor,_” Zaammeytiid states. “Release me before I make you.”

“My name isn’t _Joor_—” Aventus unwraps his arms from their form and steps back. He smiles and rocks back and forth on his heels. “Call me Aventus! Boy, oh boy, I’m so glad you came—I prayed, and I prayed _so long. _It took so long. So very, very long—But you’re here, I can’t believe it! You’ll accept my contract, right? Won’t you?”

_“Contract?” _It bewilders them to hear the tiny _joor _talk as if he has any understanding of how vicious and lethal the Dark Brotherhood truly is.

“My mother,” The boy looks to the side and his eyes dim. “She… She died. I’m all alone now. So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften—”

_If we’re doing that—Stay far away from the orphanage, Sahkriimar. It is… part of the Brotherhood quests. _Kara’s words ring loudly in their head. They stare at the young child.

“—Honorhall. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. They call her Grelod the _Kind,_ but she’s not kind! She’s terrible! To all of us!” Aventus’ tone becomes angry and frustrated, the same kind of frustration and rage Zaammeytiid knows all too well. “So I ran away! Came home! I performed the Black Sacrament and—And,” and the boy’s voice settles back into joy. “Now you’re here! You can kill Grelod the Kind!”

_I’m not strong enough to see Cicero again. _The _dov _person grits their teeth. “Find someone else—”

“Please,” the boy drops to his knees and grovels. “Please, please, _please! _I’m all alone! The Jarl said I _had _to go to Honorhall Orphanage! He’ll send me back there! It’s not fair!”

_Ulfric. _The name makes them pause. They feel a thrill at the thought of finding another way to turn tables on him and show him they are far, far superior in every sense of the word, from combat to bedding to evading him and his tiny army. Taking Aventus under wing, killing Grelod, and keeping the boy from being shipped back to Honorhall Orphanage would further continue spiting the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion. Kara _did _say not to go to the orphanage, but they could always arrange a way for Grelod to die _outside _the orphanage.

“…Alright, tiny _joor_—”

“Aventus Aretino.” The boy is stubborn as a _dov. _“Why do you keep saying that? _Joor?” _

“It means _mortal, _you small _raan_.” Zaammeytiid growls but Aventus simply taps his chin in wonder and thought.

“_Joor. Raan._ What does _raan _mean?” Aventus asks.

“Animal. You are mortal, an animal, in comparison to a creature of the _lok, _or sky.” Zaammeytiid crosses their arms and squints. “Say all three words, tiny _joor._”

“_Joor raan lok.” _The boy repeats each word effortlessly, as if it is all simple syllables. “Is that Dark Brotherhood code for accepting my contract?”

They stare.

“…You will come with me. I’ll kill this _joor, _Grelod the kind. It is part of the contract, tiny _joor,_” Zaammeytiid eyes the boy coldly but his eyes light up. Aventus nods eagerly and they continue, “You do as I say! It will be harsh! You must rely on your _mul, _your strength. I do not pick up stray _joor raan _for fun.”

“_Mul.” _The boy repeats. He hums the word with a nod. “_Mul, _okay!”

“Do not say it so casually! Only _dovahkiin _and _dov _say such things in ease. If you were to shout it would tear your lungs from your throat,” they gesture to their throat. They aren’t convinced he understands, but tiny _joor _are not known for making good decisions. They look to one of the boarded-up windows of the room and grimace. “We’ll leave at dawn.”

“Dawn? But there’s so much light then—”

“_Beyn, _do not question a _dov,” _the _dov _person hisses. It irks them he does not take their words with any hint of fear. He’s too calm and eager about it, about death, about the Black Sacrament. “_Ulfric _will not expect us to leave come daylight. He is a _kaal, _a warrior. Warriors overthink their opponents—"

“And he’ll think we want to stay in the shadows! And be all _Dark Brotherhood-y_! That’s brilliant! You must have lots of _mul _in your brain!” Aventus grins ear-to-ear. “Can you teach me other Dark Brotherhood code words? So we can communicate all the time without anyone else knowing what we say! Except other Brotherhood members. They can know, right? Do they know? Nevermind—Just teach me anyways! I want to know! I promise not to say a word of it to anyone!”

Zaammeytiid sighs and sits on the ground. If it will cease the tiny _joor’s_ loud chatting, then they don’t see the harm in it. They pat the spot next to them. Their eyes drift to the window, where they wait for the first glimmer of the sun hours from that point. “Very well, tiny _joor. _This word is relevant for your contract. It is _laas, _and it means life. We are to take the _laas _of Grelod the Kind. Understand?” At his nod, they squint and add, "Say it, tiny _joor_."

_“Laas.” _The boy whispers. His eyes grow big and he stumbles backward, pointing a finger at them. Zaammeytiid doesn't know what to think until he sputters out in shock, _“_Why are you_ red?” _

They can’t help but freeze at the words. They stare at the child, the hopelessly optimistic and excited young boy, and they briefly consider how quickly they could end his suffering. One quick snap of the neck and he would be dead, a goner, and his soul could be free. The _dov _inside the tiny _joor _would never have to fear the Daedric Princes and their tricks, never have to worry about a World Eater consuming and devouring everything they love, never have to worry about people like Ulfric Stormcloak or the Thalmor trying to turn them into a weapon to mold the future as they see fit. It would be so, _so _easy. The act would be a painless mercy in their eyes; they know the life of a Dragonborn—much less a _kid_—is bound for suffering and tribulations.

They can’t bring themself to do it. The bloodthirsty, murderous spirit cannot bring their wrath down on such an innocent, happy, tiny _dovahkiin. _It has been many centuries since they heard of a _baby dov_ and the young _dovahkiin _before them now is the closest thing to one in a millennia.

Zaammeytiid curses under breath for a long minute while Aventus looks around the room and gawks and gasps. “I see so many red dots! Wow! Is this what all Dark Brotherhood people do? Or is it only you?”

“Only me, small _dovahkiin._”

“That’s also not my name.” Aventus crosses his arms and sits cross-legged on the ground. “Oh, what’s your name? Or are you not allowed to tell me?”

They hesitate. If they take the baby _dov _to Riften, then they cannot have him running around yapping their name to people. The _dov _person sighs. “Sahkriimar. Say it slowly, little _dovahkiin_.”

“I’m not named _Dovahkiin!” _Aventus puffs out his chest.

“No, but you are a tiny _dovahkiin. _You need a new name. Your _joor _name is unacceptable.” Zaammeytiid ignores the child’s exasperated, offended look. “It is… Consider it part of the Dark Brotherhood’s rite of welcoming, tiny _dovahkiin_.”

“You should have said that in the first place.”

“Such a big mouth for a baby _dovahkiin_,” Zaammeytiid snorts. “Tell me three words you like, tiny _dovahkiin. _Your new name will be in the language of the sky, the _lok.”_

“But my mother gave me my name.” The boy frowns and looks away. He draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs.

“Three words.” Zaammeytiid is no mother, nor father, nor _parent_. They demand the words from him again. “Three words, tiny _dovahkiin_.” When he doesn’t respond, they sigh. They are _not _comforting a grumpy, small almost-_joor. _They are not! They refuse! They wait until the boy is done sniffling and then give him a soft nudge to the shoulder. “Three words.”

“Do they have to be sky language?” Aventus grumbles from the side. He’s unhappy, but he’ll get over it, Zaammeytiid reckons.

“No. But the name will be spoken and written in the language of the sky when it is translated, tiny _dovahkiin._” Zaammeytiid pauses.

“_Mullokkaal._” The tiny _dovahkiin _declares with a cheery smile. “Did I do that right? Oh! Wow! Does this mean _I _get to be a member of the Dark Brotherhood now??”

“Strength-Sky-Warrior.” Zaammeytiid considers the name. “A legacy to grow into, tiny _dovahkiin. Mullokkaal. _But no, you are not a full-fledged Dark Brotherhood yet. Not until you are a tall, strong _dovahkiin. _Until then you are,” the _dov _person frowns and glances to the side. “…You can be the tiny assistant _dovahkiin _to the Dark Brotherhood. An apprentice.”

“Wow,” Mullokkaal’s eyes are full of daydreams. They question if he’ll even make a day in the wilderness before he succumbs and dies.

“There are rules.” Zaammeytiid decides to share, to try and keep the little _dovahkiin _safe if he is that desperate to become involved with the Brotherhood. “They are called _The Five_ _Tenets. _You will obey them; they are absolute. To not do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis. This applies to all members of the Brotherhood, not simply the tiny _dovahkiin _apprentice. Am I clear, _dovahkiin? _If you do not take this seriously then—"

“I’ll take it seriously! I will, I _promise.” _He holds up his pinky. Zaammeytiid refuses to take it, but Mullokkaal—or _Mul, _they decide they have yet to see promise of the warrior or sky he claims to be part of—quiets and watches them fervently. “I’m listening. I really am.”

_I will never be rid of this tiny dovahkiin, will I? _Zaammeytiid regrets ever stepping into the house. “Fine. Tenet one—Never disrespect the Night Mother! To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis."

“Who is Sithis? Isn’t Night Mother our goddess?” He’s far, far too innocent to be asking the questions, but Zaammeytiid reckons little Mul is also too deep to stop there. They nod at him, and he gawks. “Then who is Sithis?? How is—Do we have two of them? Two moms? I’d like that!”

“No. Sithis is the Dread Father. Your Dread Father—"

“And yours,” Mul chirps and smiles broadly. He writhes where he sits. “I get it now! Both of them are our gods! The Divines! The only two that matter! Night Mother… Dread Father… But Dread Father goes by Sithis too, right? So—”

“_Tenet two_.” Zaammeytiid cuts the boy off. “Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets! To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis. Do not be a _pahlok mey, _tiny _dovahkiin. _That stands for ‘arrogant fool.’ The Dark Brotherhood is full of secrets; you must hoard them for yourself, like a true _dov _would with a stash of treasure. Understand?”

“_Pahlok mey. Dovahkiin. _What does _dovahkiin_ mean?” Mul squints and scrunches his brows.

“Tenet three: never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. That means me, tiny _dovahkiin. _I am higher ranked than you. If I tell you to run—You run. No hesitations! No questions! I say fight—You fight! I say kill—You kill, _krii_! The word ‘kill’ of the _lok_.” Zaammeytiid clears their throat. As far as imaginary rankings go, they place themself far, far above little Mul. He would only be an apprentice; they would be…

_I am not Listener. _Zaammeytiid stiffens. _I am not Listener. This is all… It is purely to keep the tiny dovahkiin safe. I am not becoming part of the Dark Brotherhood. _

“You okay?” Mul tilts his head to one side. His voice wavers. “You aren’t sick, are you??”

“No. Tenet four,” the _dov _person bows their head and shuts their eyes. “Never steal the possessions of a Dark sibling. The other members of the Dark Brotherhood are called your Dark siblings, little _dovahkiin_.”

_“I_ get to have siblings?” His eyes are full if light and joy and happiness. “When do I get to meet them??”

_Perhaps this was a bad idea. _Zaammeytiid grimaces internally. They ignore the question and continue, “Tenet five! Last tenet! Never kill a Dark sibling! To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis!” They straighten upright where they sit and huffs. “Do you understand these five tenets, tiny _dovahkiin? _Should I repeat them for you?”

“I think I understand them pretty good.” Mul sways side-to-side. “Hey, why does the red on you go away after awhile? The red I see when I say _laas,_” he whispers the _dov _tongue so perfectly that it makes Zaammeytiid’s heart swell in pride for a second. “See, _you _are all red to me now! Like a big gob of red stuff! But you aren’t really red—And—It went away. It just went away. Now you look normal?”

“_Laas _means life, little _dovahkiin._” Zaammeytiid averts their gaze. “When you whisper it—Your thu’um, the innate essence of all that you are, of your _dov zii_, it manifests and reveals the _laas _of others around you, of their life.”

“Does it work through walls?”

“Perhaps.” Zaammeytiid grins wickedly. “When you are not a tiny _dovahkiin _you can see through walls. But you are tiny. I am not.”

“You seem really short compared to other grown-ups I know. Are you really old? Is that why? Some old grown-ups become short because they get hunched over—" Mul’s words do not stop and he continues to blab for hours even when Zaammeytiid leers at them from the side. The boy seems at peace with how things are. By the time he quiets and dozes off, Zaammeytiid is ready to strangle the entire populace of Windhelm to death with their bare hands. Come dawn, they shake the small _dovahkiin _awake and haul him to his feet. They rise as well. Mul greets them with a meager. “Huh? Is it time yet?”

“Aye.” They sound vaguely like Brynjolf a moment. The thought of the Nordic thief makes them frown. They move to the boarded-up windows and attempt to peek through the cracks between wood planks to no avail. “…_Beyn, _cannot see much from here. _Laas yah nir.” _They whisper the full-fledged shout of Aura Whisper and hum thoughtfully once specks upon specks of red cloud their vision. The shout gives them a prolonged look at every living creature in the area for almost a mile. They can see splotches of red hinting at other residents of the Gray Quarter, they spy a wall of red at Windhelm’s primary gate that points to guards, and they see lone drops of red indicating normal citizens or guards making their morning rounds and routines.

“What does _yah nir _mean?” Mul prods their side with a finger. “Sahkriimar?”

“Shush unless spoken to, tenet three, tiny _dovahkiin._” Zaammeytiid huffs. Their eyes narrow and they concentrate on taking note of as many specks of red by the gate as possible. By the time the blobs of red fade from their vision, they have an idea of what to do. The _dov _person looks down at Mul and grunts. “I am going to tell you a special set of words, tiny _dovahkiin. _Do not shout these words unless you fear the sky itself may fall in emergency. These are the words of Snow-Hunter-Wing, a great beast of the _lok _that will devour and destroy the ground if summoned. But that includes you—You must not shout the name lightly.”

“Can I change my name to have one of those words in it? I like the idea of having hunter in my name.” Mul shifts his weight side-to-side and stares up at them.

They sigh. “Fine. The words are—_Od, _for Snow. _Ah, _for Hunter. _Viing. _For Wing. _Od-Ah-Viing. _Do not shout them.”

“_Mul…ah…kaal. Mulahkaal_. Can I be that instead of _Mullokkaal_? Or—Or—_Mullokah_? Strength-Sky-Hunter! I like that more than warrior. Because assassins are kind of like hunters, right? We hunt _laas_!” The boy exclaims in excitement. His fists clench. Then—Mul frowns. He squints and looks around. “There’s lots of red dots?”

_“Laas,” _Zaammeytiid spits the shout out and freezes. They can make out ten red specks hounding the door to the Aretino residence. They hear the planks they used to reinforce it withstand their efforts, but they know if someone is trying to get in that it is only a matter of time. Zaammeytiid growls in annoyance. “Tiny _dovahkiin, _remember what I have taught you. Do not repeat these other words; only call _Odahviing _in emergency. When I shout—You stick behind me, at my side, or I carry you myself. Understand?” There’s no time to wait for an answer. They hear the planks bust on the floor below them and Zaammeytiid inhales a great gulp of air before turning to the wall and windows and roaring, _“Fus ro dah!” _

The shout of Unrelenting Force tears through the weakened structure and leave a great hole in the middle of it. Zaammeytiid peeks over the edge, grimaces at the height, and scoops tiny Mul in their arms without second thought. He yelps in fear when they take a running leap from the room to the ground below. It’s a rough landing; but Zaammeytiid is a _dov _and _dov _do not go quietly into the dawn. They manage to get away with only a twisted ankle and they ignore the pain that shoots through their body as they put Mul on the ground, take his hand, and book it through the streets of Windhelm. Guards shout and call after them but they are quick on their feet and weave effortlessly between twisting walkways and shop corners. Mul begs them to slow down, to give a moment of rest, but Zaammeytiid knows it isn’t possible.

“_Laas!” _Zaammeytiid calls out as the two sprint. The shout gives them the insight to avoid certain areas or to take the less risky route, but they are forced to repeat it over and over as the city of Windhelm becomes a chaotic mess of Stormcloaks swarming the streets in hot pursuit. They can’t lose the soldiers, so they decide the best course of action is to _book it_ to one of the gates. They know the stables are just outside and they have no qualms with stealing more horses from Stormcloaks or their supporters. Zaammeytiid surges forward around a corner and pulls Mul with them down a long corridor. They see the edge of one gate ahead and forego the _laas _shout in favor of roaring, _“Fus ro dah!” _

The four guards present go flying and smack into the stone wall that curves behind them. The smell of blood is fresh and crisp and Zaammeytiid has a grin on their face when it hits their nostrils. Their grip on Mul slips and they take two steps before freezing and gong back for the tiny, panting _dovahkiin_.

“Throat… chest… hurts…” Mul’s eyes are watering.

Zaammeytiid hisses, “We are close to the stables, little _dovahkiin_—”

A force rams into their back and they go sprawling forward. Someone tackles them to the ground; they try to roll to free themself but the individual is stronger and keeps them pinned. In their haste to shout Unrelenting Force, they did not see any stray specks of red the _laas _might have revealed. The full weight of a Nord woman bears down on them and hands wrap around their throat as Brayl leans to their ears and whispers. “Death to those who oppose the High King.”

They try and headbutt the woman off but she’s expecting it. Brayl shoves Zaammeytiid’s face into the earth before it goes anywhere. Her grip on the _dov _person’s windpipe tightens and Zaammeytiid finds their pathetic _joor slen _gasp and wheeze for air.

Behind them comes a hoarse cry of, _“Odahviing!” _

Brayl stiffens in shock at the sight of a young boy shouting. Her disbelief is enough for Zaammeytiid to shove her off. Brayl’s eyes are wide in shock. She lifts a hand; Zaammeytiid doesn’t hesitate to unsheathe Ulfric Stormcloak’s sword and behead the soldier with it. It’s satisfying to watch Brayl Stone-Fist’s head hit the ground.

Nearby, comes an agonizing scream. They look up and spy Galmar Stone-Fist at the far end of the main road, eyes full of rage and locked unto his dead kin’s corpse. They meet his gaze and smile. They grab Mul’s hand with their own free one and pull the shaking, mortified boy far, far from the gates. When he’s too tired to go on, they drop the sword and pick him up. To aid in the process, they bellow the words of the Dragon Aspect shout, _“Mul qah diiv!” _

Beautiful white, ethereal scales flock to their form and give them the strength they need to shove aside guards, kick past one stable hand, and put Mul on a horse. They climb unto the horse’s saddle behind him and give the horse a light kick to the belly. The steed whines but breaks into a gallop as Stormcloak soldiers rush the stable. Zaammeytiid finds themself silently thanking the Night Mother as the duo tear from the grounds of Windhelm and ride south. Behind them, in the sky, comes a great battle cry and a flying, soaring shape. Zaammeytiid’s praises for the Dark Brotherhood’s goddess go up in smoke and they curse under breath as the motley of snow-white and red scales flies in and out of their vision, easily locking unto them in yet another chase.

_“Sahloknir!” _Odahviing calls from the sky. _“Mirmulnir!” _

“He’s shouting for reinforcements,” Zaammeytiid hisses as the steed gallops forward. “He will hunt me, little _dovahkiin_—There, at the fork!" They point ahead to a split in the road, where one cuts off to east and the other to the west. Zaammeytiid slows the horse to a stop at the fork and climbs off. Their brows furrow. “_Dovahkiin, _you meet me in Riften—"

“What?? No! Where are you going?” Mul’s wide-eyes watch them.

They snort. “I am going to go fight three _dov _and lose. They will not follow you, little _dovahkiin._”

“But that means you’ll die! The contract—The—” Mul’s voice cracks and his eyes water. “You can’t leave me here!”

“Go to Riften, _Mullokah,”_ Zaammeytiid grits their teeth and looks to the sky as three consecutive roars ring out. “The word _zeim _will aid you in stealth—You must go to the graveyard, to a mausoleum, and press the corners of the biggest coffin you find. It will open an entrance to the Thieves Guild—”

The boy gawks and clutches the reins of the horse in disbelief. “The Thieves Guild?? What—No—We’re the Dark Brotherhood!”

“There is _another _member of the Dark Brotherhood there,” Zaammeytiid states. They can only hope that, from the time they questioned Brynjolf through the Bend Will shout, his answer of _yes _referenced Kara. “She is a tall dunmer named Kara! Tell her _Sahkriimar _sent you! She will finish the contract—” When Odahviing crashes into the ground ten yards away, they pat Mul’s horse on the rear and stand between the two as a buffer. “Go, now!”

“But—”

_“The Third Tenet!” _Zaammeytiid hisses. They feel a pang of relief when Mul complies and the horse takes off. They hear two dragons flying overhead, circling, but it brings them a sliver of satisfaction to see Odahviing stalk them in a semi-circle. The shimmer of the Dragon Aspect shout, that of the white and gold semi-translucent scales lining their body, begins to fade in and out. They don’t let fear take over their voice as they snarl. “Afraid of my scales, _Odahviing?_”

“_Zaam mey tiid, him hinde pah liiv,” _the dragon hisses. “_Dir ko mar. _Perish.”


	14. speaking your language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on the road to windhelm, kara and the gang come across a lone boy with a strange request.

The group’s attempts to detour to Windhelm prove harder than expected. Though the main roads are clear of bandits, a new threat presents itself in the skies of Skyrim: dragons. It feels like overnight the presence of dragons have tripled; every ten minutes Kara hears around roar come from the distance, or one of the three sees a dark shape fly to the side. It’s sheer luck and the sacrifice of one of the group’s horses that they don’t run into any _serious _problems navigating the wild lands of Solitude, the Pale, and Eastmarch. Kara feels apologetic that it had to be _her _horse that got thrown to a flying lizard, but she shuts up when Vex allows her to ride behind her on the woman’s mare. The group spends two weeks bypassing hazards and avoiding dragons, all in pursuit of reaching Windhelm.

What they find on the path to Windhelm is a strange sight. It’s not like the trio haven’t come across other travelers before, but the sight of a _single, _lone horse, without a rider, makes Kara stiffen and look across the skies. Sure enough, in the distance, she spots one dark shape soar and _land _with a faint roar. The woman peers at Vex’s back and voices the question all three thieves are thinking, “Should we try to help?”

“No, absolutely not. Windhelm’s a lost cause if a dragon’s decided to attack it.” Vex grits her teeth. All three freeze when a second roar blares from the horizon. “Oblivion, there’s more than two—_Nope, _no, nah! We’ll be mincemeat in seconds!”

“There’s a kid—! Kara, Vex—What in Oblivion is a kid doing here?” Rune stammers the words—it may be the first and hopefully last time Kara will ever hear him sputter—and points ahead.

The lone horse is not alone after all. The steed, from the straightforward angle and glare of the sun, first appears to wear an empty saddle. Kara gawks and eyes a lone boy, nine or ten at the most, pushing the horse onward while wicked tears stream down his face.

“Hey!” Kara dismounts from Vex’s horse immediately, much to the latter’s dismay. The woman sprints forward and waves at the horse and child. The boy’s head snaps up and he blinks through tears and big, bloodshot eyes as she approaches his horse. “What are you doing out here? These road’s have dragons! Can’t you hear the roaring? Where are your parents?”

The child looks familiar, but so does every other child in Skyrim to Kara. She’s played _Skyrim_ the _video game _more than enough times to adopt every single orphan at least once. He fits the look, but lacks the cheerful, scripted smiles or frowns most kids have. She’s never seen a child character straight-up bawl, another facet of Skyrim being a reality. It hurts her heart. She lowers her hands to her sides and watches the boy sputter and mumble incoherently. Kara pieces together his sobs and wails with the sole horse and lack of parents: _clearly, _the dragons nearby made off with more than just scales and fear spread across the ground.

“—sibling—trouble—" The boy begins to cry again. Ugly tears fall down his face and he sobs into his hands while his horse stands idly on the road.

Kara bites her lip. She hears Vex and Rune ride their horses up to the two. Rune dismounts but holds unto the reins. Kara frowns and meets his gaze, “I think his parents are dead. He has a sibling? I bet that’s what those two dragons are feasting on right now—” She doesn’t mean to say it so _bluntly _but it all comes out in a moment and the boy on the horse cries louder. Kara grimaces, “Sorry—That’s not how I meant it! I’m sure they’re fine—”

“—going—die—” The boy can’t speak through muffled pleads, cries, and choking tears.

Vex sighs wearily. “Look, kid, I hate to break it to you but your family’s dead—”

_“Vex!”_ Kara protests.

“—And like shit we are going to try and stage a _rescue mission, _Kara,” the Imperial thief eyes Kara warily. Vex shakes her head. “One dragon on its own can kill dozens of men! You want to try and fight _two _at once? Oblivion, is this a _dunmer _thing?”

“I hate to say it, but I agree,” Rune averts his gaze to the side. “One dragon? Maybe. You got your bow, don’t you, Kara? But—There’s not one. You heard those roars. We can’t take down _two _dragons.”

“Please,” the horse boy whispers in a broken, cracked voice. “—They’re my family now—_Please_.”

“What’s your name, squirt?” Vex huffs and squints at him.

The horse boy swallows. “Mul—Mullokah.”

Kara stiffens. She knows the words—not their meaning, but their origin—and her brows furrow. “Mullokah. Where did you get your name?”

“It comes from the _lok_,” Mullokah whispers. “The sky.”

“By Mara,” Kara feels goosebumps run up and down her arms. She shivers and exhales. “You’re speaking the language of dragons, Mullokah.”

“I know that!” The boy shakes his head back and forth. He buries his face in his hands again and sobs. “My sibling—They taught it to me—”

“Who is your sibling?” Rune asks.

_“Sahkriimar,” _Mullokah says sadly.

Kara, Vex, and Rune stare at him. Kara’s face drains of color and she freezes in place, in disbelief, at an inability to process _what in Oblivion _just happened. The child’s words make no sense, are sheer, _utter _coincidence, yet he sits on his horse with tears in his eyes and mourning in his heart claiming her former _dov _is his sibling. She doesn’t understand. She takes a step forward. Then—Another. Then she doesn’t care about what Vex says, or Rune shouts at her. Her mind acts on its own and she breaks into a sprint past the bewildered thieves and strange kid. She feels her heart thud in her chest, and she hears a third roar ring out from up the road, beyond a thicket of trees atop a hill. It’s pure and strong and every bit as worthy of the sky as the damn _dov _person goes on endlessly about.

_“Gol hah dov! Odahviing!” _The voice rips through the air and Kara shakes and sputters at the thu’um’s magic rippling across the area.

She climbs up the hill and pulls her bow from her back and arrows from her quiver. She notches one; she knows she’ll need it. She drops into a crouch and creeps forward through the trees. She sees the figures easier now: three in the sky, madly circling one another, while a lone fourth dips and ducks and weaves intermittently around blasts of ice and great gales of fire. Sahkriimar doesn’t have a weapon, and they look both better than Kara thought they would be but worse for wear given they singlehandedly run amuck three hostile dragons. The Bend Will shout flies into effect and latches unto the chosen target: a monstrously large dragon with piercing red scales specked in white hints of hide. The dragon Odahviing falls to the thu’um and crashes into the ground.

“Hold them off—” Sahkriimar commands but not before one of the two dragons, one with beautiful dark gray scales, makes a dive for them and snaps at their form.

Kara raises the bow, sucks in a breath, and prays to every god off the top of her head. The arrow _zips _forward on release and it punctures the neck of one dragon. It’s not a lethal hit, but the dragon’s aim falters from the pain of the ebony arrow embedding itself in its body. Sahkriimar throws themself to the side while the attacking dragon rolls and topples past them. The dragon picks itself up slowly but Sahkriimar’s already running away—From both the dragon _and _Kara. Kara gawks and stares. “What in Oblivion are you doing?? That’s the wrong way, stubborn dragon!”

_They’re stalling for time. _It clicks in Kara’s head and the woman frowns. _For what kind of time? To get away? They can’t get away, not like this—To get someone else away? _Her eyes widen. _Mullokah. What have you been doing while you’ve been away, Sahkriimar? Since when do you care about children?  
_

She decides to ask questions later. She pulls back on her bow and launches ebony arrow after arrow at the dragon on the ground, forcing it to draw back rather than chase and snap at Sahkriimar’s heels. The dragon draws back; Kara freezes in realization as the dragon turns and makes a beeline for her. She hears it say a word but she doesn’t understand the meaning of _laas _and simply stands, frozen-in-fear, while the dragon gets closer, closer, closer, closer, _closer—_It comes crashing forward with jaws and teeth and claws and dark, violent eyes. She can only stare in awestruck horror as it raises a great clawed hand in the air and brings it down on her.

_“Iiz Slen Nus,” _the words come pouring out and the dragon’s talons stops an inch from Kara’s face, frozen still as stone, while Sahkriimar runs to her side and pulls her to her feet. The _dov _person wears Ulfric’s robes, an empty sword scabbard, and has bruises peppering their neck on all sides. Kara can’t think; she only stares until Sahkriimar growls an order, “Run, _mey dovahkiin! _My _thu’um _will not last forever!”

She runs.

Sahkriimar bolts behind her and urges her onward. Kara wants to cry in relief when she sees Vex gallop up the hill to them. The Imperial woman stares in shock at Sahkriimar’s garb but the shock lasts only a second before she extends a hand to Kara. Kara climbs unto Vex’s horse and holds tightly while Sahkriimar follows their gallop down the hill.

“Mullokah! I told you to go to _Riften_,” Sahkriimar yells as they reach the stunned, overjoyed, complicated horse boy and climbs unto the horses back. “Ride, tiny _dovahkiin, _ride!”

“Should I—No,” Rune’s comment becomes a speck behind them all as the group gallops away at full speed. The roars and snarls of dragons in the distance—primarily that of Odahviing, compelled by Sahkriimar’s shout to deter his own allies—begins to grow fainter, but none of the group relaxes until they’ve taken shelter in a small cave shielded on two sides by a large canyon. As things wind down and no signs of the dragons linger, Kara offers the first sigh of relief that things are _almost _okay.

“What in Oblivion was that about?! How’d you get _three _dragons on your ass, Dragonborn?! Can you even kill _one? _It was a lot of running away!” Vex is the first to talk. She climbs off her horse, throws the reins at Kara, and storms over to where Sahkriimar lingers on the same steed as horse boy.

“_Beyn, _I did not miss this one.” Sahkriimar retorts with a growl. They ignore Vex’s questions and help the child dismount. The boy stands next to their side, utterly cheerful again if greatly tired. And thin.

_And thin. _Kara frowns. “When did you eat last, Mu… Uh… Mu… Mul?”

“Mul.” Mul grins. “That’s what Sahkriimar calls me, too! That and tiny _dovahkiin_—”

“Shush.” Sahkriimar pats his head and crosses their arms. Their eyes scan the group. They turn back to Mul. “Tiny _dov, _Riften is southeast of Windhelm. Not west.”

“I don’t know which is which,” Mul looks at the ground and frowns.

“Then you will learn. Eventually.” Sahkriimar obliges a nod at him.

“Sahkriimar, you need to feed the poor kid—What am I saying?” Kara runs her hands through her hair and stares at the strange duo. “He called you his _sibling! _Where did you find him?? How?? Why are you traveling with a tiny child? This is unlike you! I have half a mind to slay you where you stand and prove you’re a doppelganger!”

“Kara—”the _second _Sahkriimar opens their mouth, Mul’s eyes grow big and happy and he zips forward and bounces on his feet

_“Are you my other dark sibling?” _The boy radiates such an exuberant amount of enthusiasm that Kara feels compelled to step back. “Sahkriimar told me all about how I get siblings now—I get _dark siblings—_I get to have a family! Whole family! A Bro—”

“Great, now we’re all babysitters.” Vex grumbles under breath.

“This is Kara, Mul—_Mul, tenent three,” _Sahkriimar’s words make the boy snap to attention, straighten upright, and dart back to Sahkriimar’s side. The _dov _person grimaces and stares at their guild members. “Why are you three near Windhelm?”

“That does not answer any immediate questions.” Rune points out but huffs when Sahkriimar’s glare lands on him. “It doesn’t, Sahkriimar. You’ve been missing for weeks.”

“One month… two weeks. I counted.” Sahkriimar states without blinking. “Foolish _joor, _I need _my _answer first.”

“Kara wanted to detour from our actual job and come to Windhelm. Guess I see why now.” Vex turns to Kara and the latter offers a half-crooked grin.

“I wouldn’t leave you,” Kara says firmly. Her only thanks is a scowl from Sahkriimar. The woman gawks and stares. “What—What? I’m sorry, am I not allowed to be concerned for you now?”

“I had things under control,” Sahkriimar huffs.

“I doubt that. You had three dragons on your ass,” Rune climbs off his horse and pats the mare’s neck. “I don’t know how you’re still alive. I bet anyone else in Skyrim would be dead by now.”

“Good thing a _dov _is not _beyn mey joorre. _Not scorned, foolish mortals. I do not die easily.” Sahkriimar turns to Mul. They exhale sharply. “Are you intact?”

“Me? Oh— Uh—” Mul wipes his cheeks free of dried tears. “Yeah—Yeah! I’m fine. _Fine. _I wasn’t scared. Didn’t even cry. I’m tough as… tough people. I’m tough! I have lots of _mul! _I’m a _kaal!_”

“He’s speaking your language. Literally,” Kara puts her hands on her hips and narrows her gaze. “Sahkriimar. An explanation, please. I know I heard one of you two toss around the word _dovahkiin _earlier. I know _dov _means dragon but—”

“He’s Dragonborn,” are all the words needed to make Kara’s heart drop in her chest.

She hears Vex and Rune exclaim something in opposition, and she registers Sahkriimar breaking down how the little kid is the fabled Dragonborn, how he speaks the _dov _tongue so fluently, how he shouted and called _Odahviing _in Windhelm, and not a single word of it lasts more than a second in Kara’s mind. She sways idly and watches Mul fidget in place from all the attention on him. _You’re the Dragonborn. You’re the fabled hero. You’re the consumer. You’re the one who is going to stop the World-Eaten and restore this world to peace. You’re… not me. I’m not you. I’m not the Dragonborn. I’m just… _

It’s foolish of her to have thought there was any possibility, any semblance, or any inkling that she was in fact Dragonborn. That would make her _special. _She’s not special. She’s Kara, the Dremora, that isn’t even a Daedric Prince anymore because… something to do with a trade, with Sheogorath, with giving up power?

“Why?” Kara asks no one in particular, but the question is picked up by everyone nonetheless.

“Why… what? _Niid dovahkiin? _Why did I go into an abandoned house?” Sahkriimar snorts. They look at Mul. “Cover your ears, tiny _dovahkiin. _Do not listen.”

“But—”

_“Tenet three.”_

The boy reluctantly covers his ears to blot out sound.

“Tenet three?” Kara mutters under her breath but she doesn’t think on the matter too long when Sahkriimar turns to the three adults and huffs.

“I bedded the leader of the Stormcloaks and stole his clothes,” it’s spoken so casually that Vex gawks before it hits her, and then Vex begins to laugh. Rune takes longer to join in his snorts and chuckles. Kara holds her hand to her face while Sahkriimar blinks like it is completely normal to discuss their bed habits. Sahkriimar dons a silky-smooth smile as they add on to the statement. “It pissed him off and I hid in a house. I also stole his sword. _Mey joor _thought a _dov _could be wooed so quickly. Cut off one of his _kaal_’s heads with the thing.”

“Zeus help me, I might throw up,” Kara retches at the though. She turns on her heels and strides to Sahkriimar. It makes her feel good to look down at Sahkriimar’s short figure. “Why do you do the most _absurd _things when you’re not under supervision?”

“I fail to see how satiating needs is considered _mey, niid dovahkiin._ I did what I wanted. It is not like Ulfric got nothing out of it—The _joor_ was very satisfied with how the evening went. Until I shouted him,” their smile becomes a wicked grin and they meet Kara’s gaze without a hint of fear or doubt in their actions. “If I could have seen his _rahgot _when he broke free of my thu’um’s power—I would die laughing for days, _niid dovahkiin! _Such a sight it would be! I speared his ego! Ripped his pride! He is truly of the ground, the _mey joor!_”

“Sometimes you make me feel sick to know you. This is one of those times, _dov._” Kara grits her teeth. “I come all this way out to Windhelm and stop a dragon from biting you in half—For what? To listen about how you dipped and dashed Ulfric Stormcloak?”

“Is that how _joorre _describe it? Or is that a _Dremora_ thing?” Sahkriimar brushes aside the comments. They nudge Mul to let him know it is okay to uncover his ears; the boy lowers his hands and frowns at Kara.

_“Dremora?_ Kara isn’t a—Nevermind, I doubt you’d understand if it shat out right in front of you.” Vex doesn’t give a shit about how young Mul is; her language lingers regardless of the kid present.

“What do you expect to do with this kid, Sahkriimar?” Rune clears his throat. “Mercer won’t allow a kid in the guild.”

“My sibling’s gonna help me with my _contract,_” Mul speaks loud enough for all four to hear.

Sahkriimar growls. _“Tenet two._”

“Oh. Oh!” Mul’s hands go to his face. His eyes water and he turns to Sahkriimar, pleading and desperate. “I’m sorry! Don’t let Sithis invoke wrath on me! I’m sorry—I’ll be good—I promise—”

“Sithis invoke wrath on—_You adopted Aventus Aretino?” _Kara can’t stop herself from lurching forward grabbing Sahkriimar by their robes’ collar. Kara shakes the annoyed _dov _back and forth as she hisses. “That was one of the first things we talked about, you _fuck!_ Don’t go near the orphanage! No Brotherhood! _You _said that! _You _made it happen! You were the one who wanted nothing to do with the Dark Brotherhood or _Cicero_ ever again! I had finally given up! I was ready to move on! I wanted to move on! I wanted to forget everyone I loved! Everyone I worked so hard to save! And you just fucking up and decided to do the Dark Brotherhood quest anyways—!"

Sahkriimar’s eyes blaze in anger at the name. “_Unhand me, niid dovahkiin,_ I will shout you to the ground!"

“Oh, I’d like to see you _try, _you damn flying lizard!” Kara releases Sahkriimar but shoves them back. She pulls an arrow from her quiver, notches, and points at the _dov _person without hesitation. “Try_ one syllable, _you shit, _just one_. See where it gets you—You’re full of lies in _everything! _We shouldn’t have even come out here—"

“Kara! Kara, stop—” Rune grabs the woman from behind and wraps arms around her.

Vex makes off with the bow before Kara can release the arrow. Kara hisses and snaps as if she is fifty-feet tall and wielding claws and teeth versus tiny nails and weak molars. The woman gives up on the struggle after a minute; it’s futile against Rune’s sheer body mass and strength. She huffs and lets herself still in the latter’s grasp. “Fine, fine. I won’t shoot the fucking winged lizard asshole. Even if I _really _want to.” The venom is there, present, lit and obtuse in every one of Kara’s words.

Rune sighs and releases her. “Don’t. I mean it. They’re still your guild member. Guild member to all of us.”

“Mercer will kick you to the curb if you attack them.” Vex points out curtly. The Imperial thief’s eyes soften after a moment. “Kara, c’mon, it isn’t worth it. Lots of things are; your place in the Thieves Guild isn’t.”

“You’re right. They aren’t worth it.” Kara climbs unto Vex’s horse without further thought. She takes her bow back from the lady and ignores Sahkriimar further. “Let’s head back to Riften. The _Dragonborn _and _Dragonborn Junior _need to check in with Mercer. I’m not getting screwed up in that mess.”

“His name is _Mullokah._” Sahkriimar’s voice contains a warning. Kara ignores them.

As the rest of the group mounts their horses and prepares to leave, Vex calls back to Kara behind her and says, “Don’t forget—We need to tell Mercer all we found out in Solitude. If Karliah’s really involved, then he needs to know and get a head start on the Guild’s next actions as quickly as possible.”

“That’s astute of you, Vex,” Kara’s face brightens. She wears a grin that expands when Vex snorts. “Hey, I mean it as a compliment.”

“Uh-Huh.” The Imperial thief huffs; Vex’s eyes are lovelier than the sky when she glances over shoulder at Kara. “I’ll remember that.”


	15. fall into the madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're back in riften with a contract that sahkriimar begins to delay, and delay, and delay, until someone else steps in and forces their hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning this is a dark chapter
> 
> also there's a brief blurb of child abuse when it gets to the part with grelod the kind  
and also uh  
really violent murder  
read with care  
thank u all who stick with me on this rollercoaster

It’s been two months since they were initially captured by Galmar Stone-Fist and taken to Windhelm; they’re happy to be back in Riften and far away from the leaders of the Stormcloak army. It’s awkward and obnoxious to ride horses in a group with not one, not two, but three individuals equally pissed at them as they are in return. They feel surprisingly grateful for the company of Mul throughout the trek; the young _dovahkiin _provides enough enthusiasm to make up for all other members of the group being a bunch of sour grapes. Rune and Vex, sure, they could live with those _mey joorre _being cranky or snappy or upset or any of the sort toward them. What stings is Kara’s anger. It feels like a cover-up for something else, a misdirection for a feeling simmering behind her brown eyes, but they can’t put two-and-two together on what is different about their former _dovahkiin. _

Maybe it’s Sanguine. They haven’t been able to get in contact with the Daedra since the dream they visited the Myriad Realms, but last time they were in the same room he equally aroused and annoyed them. They know his plans are to arrange the transfer of Sheogorath’s claim to their soul to another Daedric Prince. If Kara found out, and she became pissed off at him because of _that_, then it makes sense the woman might direct some of her anger at them, if only because they are the reason Sanguine pissed Kara off in the first place. But all the theory does is present a new problem to address later: when they try to bring up Sanguine on the ride home, Kara doesn’t acknowledge the name beyond a raise of brows and blank stares. She acts like the Daedra is new information, as if the two don’t fuck whenever they get the chance.

_Or maybe it's just me. Fucking up with quests and individuals without knowing it. _Zaammeytiid decides to ignore all thoughts of _Kara _and _Sanguine. _They focus on apologizing to Mercer and using what little gold they have from selling theirs and Mul’s horse to fund an inn room for the young _dovahkiin. _They instruct him to stay indoors, but—to their pride and joy, ironically—he is as stubborn as a _dov _should be.

“Why do I got to stay inside? I want to go with you! We have to kill Grelod!” The boy pleads and latches unto Zaammeytiid’s leg when they try to leave.

“You will get in the way of the killing part, tiny _dovahkiin,_” they grimace and try to shake him off, but his hold is secure. Zaammeytiid sighs and rubs the back of their head. “Third tenet, tiny _dovahkiin! _Third tenet! Release me!”

“Are you going to kill her today?” Mul releases the _dov _person and stands up. He frowns and peers up at them with big hazel eyes.

“No—”

“So—Can I come outside? I need new clothes. I got that one lady’s blood on me when you cut off her head.” Mul frowns. “_Please, _Dark sibling. I haven’t been here in so long. I know Windhelm’s my home, but I don’t want to be cooped up in Riften like I was when they first sent me to the orphanage!”

He makes a point. He’s got the charisma of a _dov_, one necessary to weasel his way out of situations and to find plenty of trouble. In enough decades, they have no doubt Mul will be capable of leading armies as he is of being hunted by kingdoms for pushing the wrong priest down a verbal well. Zaammeytiid groans. “Fine, fine. Tiny _dovahkiin. _I will take you to the markets. You do not tell anyone the secrets of the Brotherhood. You speak only as necessary. We buy you clothes then you sit inside while I handle _my _things to do."

It’s good enough for the kid. His enthusiastic cheer returns in the form of a gleeful grin. He trots happily alongside the _dov _person as the two venture from the inn and head for Riften’s open marketplace. It’s a nice change of atmosphere from the wild lands of Skyrim, the snow of Windhelm, or the decrepit nature of the Guild’s cisterns. They thank the Night Mother for a lack of sun. The overcast sky isn’t full of rain, but it acts as a buffer between the sun and Zaammeytiid’s golden hair. They feel Mul pull them forward to different stalls and they stare at each vendor with an idle, empty gaze. The only vendor that recognizes them—it’s been far too long, they intend to spread fear in the near-future and return the plaza to a state of awe or intimidation—is the Argonian jewelry-maker Madesi. They give him a cocky grin and a nod when he shudders.

They never did figure out what enchantment was on the silver necklace they bought. A mystery for a lifetime.

“Little lad, what are you doing walking ‘round alone?” The voice makes them stop.

A break of sunlight at _the _most inopportune time falls on their head. They hiss and cover their hair with their hands, but they can hear the amused chuckle a mile away; they turn and eye a ginger-haired Nord in red-orange robes. His cocky grin is enough to make them stare. The tiny _dovahkiin, _the one who clearly doesn’t understand the third tenet, stands next to Brynjolf’s stall with a curious look in his big eyes.

“Oh! That’s my sibling,” Mul eagerly points out with a firm nod. “They’re Sahkriimar. They helped me pick my name! Isn’t it great? We’re people of the sky! The _lok!” _

“I wasn’t aware you had a sibling, lassie.” Brynjolf looks and sounds just as he did when they first met, months ago. As Zaammeytiid approaches, Brynjolf quirks a brow at their attire. “…Or that you wore _fur _so _well_.”

“Oh! Oh, you two know each other? Are you my Dark sibling as well? I’ll have such a big family!” Mul’s fists clench and he peers eagerly at the Nord.

Brynjolf snorts. He shakes his head, but Zaammeytiid is the one who answers; the _dov _person chuckles. “No, tiny _dovahkiin. _He is not. But he can be your friend. He is…” They aren’t sure where they’re going with the sentence, but they feel a lot less inclined to finish it once they become aware of Brynjolf’s smug smile at their words. “…Alright.”

_“Alright,”_ Brynjolf repeats with a nod.

“_Joor,_” Zaammeytiid glances at Brynjolf and squints. “Do you know where to find tiny _dovahkiin_ clothes? Mul needs clean attire. The small _joor _clothes are too thin for cold nights. Also, there’s blood on them.”

“I can’t say I’ve gotten that request before.” The Nord shrugs amicably. He turns to his stall, walks around the back, and calls to them. “Mul, is it? Little lad, come here, I might have a thing or two that’ll fit you.”

“Really?? I hope they aren’t the same colors. No offense, mister, but you look _really_ bad in that get-up. I think my sibling thinks the same,” the chatter continues incessantly while clouds overhead break.

Rays of sunlight pour over the city. Zaammeytiid moves to stand in the shadows of Brynjolf’s cart. When Brynjolf and Mul emerge from the back of the stall, Mul wears a long but comfortable-looking red tunic and thick black slacks. He grins ear-to-ear and spins to show off the sleeves; on close inspection Zaammeytiid finds fine embroidery along the sides. They step back and nod at the look. “Where did you find this, _joor? _The small _dovahkiin _likes it. He won’t stop smiling.”

Mul’s grin grows at the comment. “It’s comfortable! I think it can hide lots of things, too. I feel like there are a dozen pockets _all _over! The sleeves, the ankles, all of it! _Lots_ of pockets!”

“Aye, little lad. Lots of pockets—I keep a few things in here for special occasions, but never did I think it’d be because a kid wanted clothes,” the Nord’s smile holds a laugh in it. Zaammeytiid finds they can’t help but stare. Brynjolf looks too relaxed and at ease for them not to; part of them envies his composure while another part admires the damn smile in the first place. When he catches them looking, the man grins and winks. “Like what you see, lassie?”

“Mul,” Zaammeytiid ignores the thief and turns to the small _dovahkiin_. They fish out a stack of gold from one fur-riddled pocket and hand it over. “Find ingredients for your supper. Do not spend it on sugar or you will receive _beyn_.”

“Your scorn, your _beyn_.” Mul’s brow furrows. He nods in resolve, takes the gold, and wanders off.

Zaammeytiid hears Brynjolf shift to stand by their side in the shade. They keep their eyes on everything but the Nordic man. “…Mercer did not chew me out and throw me to wolves when I returned. With a tiny _dovahkiin_.”

It’s a simple start to a conversation they _want _to hold.

Brynjolf hums thoughtfully. “Glad he didn’t, lassie. I wasn’t sure he’d buy it.”

“Buy it?” The _dov _person pauses and glances at him. He’s not looking at them; Brynjolf’s eyes constantly scan guards, vendors, and citizens passing by. Zaammeytiid crosses their arms and frowns. “I did not ask you, _joor, _what was the reason you gave to keep me in? I’ve caught too many guild members snorting and hiding laughter to not be suspicious.”

“Well, it isn’t _that _big of a deal,” and the Nord grins cheekily. He shuts his eyes. “I told him you and I have a bit of a thing going on, lassie. What the guards saw was a big mistake. You weren’t marching me outta Riften on a shout, you were marching me to a badly-needed fuck.”

“I’m a _mey _to not assume that was your excuse in the first place.” Zaammeytiid grimaces. They shake their head. They know they could be upset, and normally they might be, but they find the feeling absent that particular day. They don’t feel an ounce of aggression or hostility at the claim, only amusement it worked in the first place. They turn to Brynjolf and stare at him with a serious gaze until the man pauses and locks eyes with them. The _dov _person’s stare softens. “…Brynjolf?”

“Hm?” The man blinks. His lips part into a frown.

Their face drains of color. They want to say _thanks _or _thank you _but they aren’t sure how to force it through their lips when their pride as a _dov _innately screams against the urge. They inhale deeply and force their form to relax, to bend to their own will and the Order their pact blesses them with. Zaammeytiid’s brows furrow and they stare Brynjolf down. “What you did for me is… unusual. Not—Not usual for a _landwalker _to accomplish, _joor. _Most do not help the _lok _for good reason_. _My kin is not trustworthy. But you—” Their eyes soften again. It’s becoming a habit. “—Did something.”

“I did in fact do _something_. Glad you noticed,” The thief states. He tilts his head to one side and huffs. “What is it, lassie? Where you going with this?”

“If you let me finish,” this time Zaammeytiid grits their teeth. They inhale again. “…You did something most would not. Something to _help _me, a _dov. _You are land and I am sky. Your actions bridged that gap. I—"

It’s clear their struggles with annoying _joor _common tongue is a result of them trying to be _serious _about something. Brynjolf is quiet now. The serious look in his eyes holds something else, something they can’t put together.

“…I’m trying to say you have my gratitude. _Thanks._” Zaammeytiid mumbles and fumbles with every last syllable of the sentence. Their cheeks flush a faint red. They avert their gaze. “Do not let it go to your head, _mey joor.” _

Brynjolf’s faint smile makes their heart thump loudly in their ears. He gently touches the edge of their fur-riddled garments and runs a hand down the soft material. “What is the story behind _this?”_

“I fucked the leader of the Stormcloaks. Stole his clothes.” Zaammeytiid huffs but doesn’t move the man’s hands away. They hold their breath when Brynjolf’s hand rises to their face and caresses them. “…That’s not part of the outfit, _mey joor._”

“Foolish mortal?” The man guesses the meaning. He draws back his hand, but the gaze lingers. “What does your name mean again, Zaammeytiid?”

“Slave of time?” Their face is a ripe cherry tomato and they don’t know what the man’s getting at because every thought in their brain feels hazy at best and sluggishly blurred at worst. They haven’t consumed anything, they know it isn’t poison, it is the chemicals that comprise their _joor slen _making them react in ways they… They don’t know. It reminds them of Cicero, of the black-and-red motley he wears, of the mischief in his eyes and laughter on his lips, and of all the ways he wormed his way into their heart. It spurns a fear they weren’t aware they could feel; a need to draw back and look away, but they don’t want that. They want the closeness Brynjolf and his ludicrous sale schemes offers. They stare up at him and the rest of the marketplace feels very, very far away.

“Do you want me to call you _that?”_ Brynjolf inquires. He crosses his arms. “Do you want to go by Sahkriimar, instead? I noticed the little lad calls you by that name—"

“I don’t know what _I_ want.” Is the response that comes out instead of any other coherent train of thought. Zaammeytiid’s words are so quiet and solemn they swear they catch Brynjolf off guard.

His eyes widen briefly before his brows furrow. “Lassie.”

“Don’t _lassie _me,” the _dov _person grimaces. “You aren’t—_The sky. _The lok. You aren’t worthy of it, _beyn,_” they fall back into what is most comfortable with them, but they instantly regret it. Zaammeytiid hisses and holds their head in their hands. “No—That’s not—_Mey dov Zaammeytiid, niid hah su lok rii. Beyn, beyn, beyn!” _They turn away begin to curse quietly in the _dov _tongue, ranting and raving and scolding themself softly, for all the things they’ve done and all the things they want to do and all the things they’re afraid of doing. If other vendors stare, they don’t notice.

“Sahkriimar!” Mul’s voice snaps them from the flurry of thoughts and feelings and _things _wearing on them. They snap upright, compile a composure, and avoid Brynjolf’s gaze as they watch the boy run back over to the Nord’s stall. He holds a black-feathered chicken in his hands.

A _live _chicken.

“I know you said to find stuff for _supper_—” Mul begins with a quaint, tiny smile that’s every bit as golly gee and _innocent _as Zaammeytiid is the Champion of Sanguine.

“No.” They grimace. “You can not have a pet _raan_.”

“But—But—_But—_” The boy pleads. He holds the chicken to his chest. The bird doesn’t appear bothered by it, but all Zaammeytiid knows about chickens is that they are far less tasty compared to the _slen _of landwalkers. Mul looks down at the bird and frowns. “I named him Clucky.”

“That’s a mighty fine name for a bird, little lad,” Brynjolf strides to him and kneels next to the acclaimed _Clucky. _“Skyrim’s got the best chickens, aye. Produce two eggs a day, the size of your fist.”

“An egg! That’s it! We’ll have eggs for dinner.” Mul dances back and forth, eyes bright. “And then we can do my contract!”

_“Contract?”_ Brynjolf’s brows rise. He straightens upright.

“Tenet two and tenet three, Mullokah!” Zaammeytiid rubs their forehead and grits their teeth. The boy’s rambunctious enthusiasm gives them a headache, but at least it’s one they know how to deal with. “Fine, keep the _joor raan. _You clean up after it, wash it, care for it. You still have my _beyn_.”

“Yes! You won’t regret it, Sahkriimar, I’m gonna make Clucky the best dark chicken the world’s ever known! I’ll train Clucky really good!” Mul grins and scours off.

“Where’s the little lad staying? I haven’t seen him in the cistern.” Brynjolf comments offhandedly.

“Inn room. Mercer won’t let him stay,” they shrug and look to the side, but their eyes inevitably trail back to the Nord man. His stare puts them on a strange edge, one where they feel their face heat up and their heart race. “—What? Out with it, _joor_—”

“That’s an expensive place to stay, lassie. Fifteen, twenty gold a night? How long is the little lad gonna be here for? For this _contract?_” Brynjolf speaks with parted lips and a suspicious note to his tone. They don’t doubt he’s putting together what’s occurring, and his words confirm their thoughts when he adds on. “You aren’t part of the Brotherhood again, are you, lassie? You mentioned before—”

_“No._ I’m not. Neither is he.” They shake their head. “But he’s… _dovahkiin. _Dragonborn.”

“There’s another?” the Nord stammers. “Lassie, aren’t you the Dragonborn?? How can there be _two?”_

“I am _dov_, not _dovahkiin. _Contrary to what all you _joorre _believe—I am _niid dovahkiin. _Not Dragonborn.” They scrunch of their brows. The clouds overhead move to block out part of the sun, and they step back into the light. They keep a sharp gaze on Mul nearby, both to avoid Brynjolf’s eyes and to keep Mul from buying more livestock. “_Mey _Brynjolf.”

“I don’t believe I’ve done anything to warrant being called a fool.” The man huffs.

“I am not Skyrim’s _hun, _its _kaal, _or its _zoor. _Not it’s hero, not it’s champion, not it’s legend,” Zaammeytiid’s eyes dim. They see a bird flying overhead and grimace. “I am stuck in _joor slen _until my master calls me to his side once more. This form you see is a consequence for my disobedience. _Mey dov Zaammeytiid, niid lok et’Ada los dii in. _I am the foolish dragon, Zaammeytiid. I am not of the sky, for the _et’Ada _is my master.”

“…Who is your master? You never told me.” It's a hesitant question but Brynjolf asks it all the same.

They faintly recall Brynjolf discussing the topic with them a while back, before the lovely Stormcloak incident wasted almost two months; They indulge his curiosity, “Lord Sheogorath, the Daedric Prince of Madness.”

Brynjolf’s face pales when they look at him, as solemn and serious as one is _joor slen. _He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. The two stand in silence a long time, with Mul occasionally running to and from them. When one finally speaks, Brynjolf’s voice is quiet. “…First time in awhile we get a chance to talk, you tell me you’re with a _Daedric Prince._ Lassie, that’s not good.”

“It is what it is.” Zaammeytiid’s grits their teeth. “My soul belongs to him whether _you _believe me or not. A word of advice: don’t trade your soul to Daedric Princes, no matter what they offer.”

“What could a Daedra offer a—” Brynjolf runs a hand through his hair and whistles sharply. “Let’s _say _I think this’s true, lassie, _what _could a Daedra offer a _dragon_?”

“Order.” Their eyes dim at the thought. It’s a moment of softness, of a ragged exhaustion that nips their heels wherever they go. They turn to Brynjolf and admire the gleam in his eyes. “_Dov _are beings of innate magic, of thu’ums and bloodlust. A _dov _is bound for violence and death, destruction and domination. I wanted to dominate the part of my _zii _that calls for _joor slen. _The bloodthirst in my soul. I wanted to help,” They know the look on his face—disbelief, horror, surprise—but they continue regardless. “You landwalkers are weak, _neh slen mul. _Never of a strong flesh in comparison to those of the _lok. _But you… _meyye, _all of you, but _meyye _with _fus zii mid rii. _Fools with loyal, forceful souls. Resolve to fight against the World-Eater you know as _Alduin._ I should have listened to Paarthurnax. I should have made peace with Kynareth. _Drem ov Kaan ul. _Peace and trust with your Divine for eternity. My pride sought the _et’Ada _instead.”

“What are you saying, lassie? How—You _can’t _be from the _Merethic Era!_” He's confused. They don't blame him.

“Do you have a dagger, Brynjolf?” Zaammeytiid asks the question with a sudden calmness. Sunlight pours over them; they know what it does to their hair and they despise it with a passion, but they refrain from showing their anger.

The Nord stares. He fumbles with a concealed pocket in his sleeve—their words must rattle him, they refuse to acknowledge that fact—and hands over an ebony dagger. Zaammeytiid takes the dagger with a nod of thanks. They hold their hair—a long, wild braid of gold locks—out in one hand and shut their eyes.

“…Lassie.”

“If I could pick my own name—It would be _Sahkriimar_, child of darkness and sworn follower of the unholy matron. That’s what _I_ want,” Their words are full of defeat. The run the dagger through the outstretched braid and it cuts it off in a tangle of hair. Brynjolf’s sharp exhale doesn’t escape them, neither does Mul’s gasp when he spots the scenario and comes running with Clucky in his arms. Zaammeytiid looks at the braid in their hand. Their head feels lighter, but still clouded with the insights only a Champion of Sheogorath can possess. They cast a weak, simmering flames spell in one hand and let the braid go up in smoke. Then they turn to Mul. “To the inn, tiny _dovahkiin_. I need to run jobs for a time.”

“Why’d you have to burn it? It was shiny and gleamy, like a gold coin!” Mul exclaims. The boy frowns and peers at them. “Also, it made you look young. Now you’re back to being an old hag, but with really short hair.”

“I prefer it this way,” Zaammeytiid grits their teeth. “To the inn, Mullokah. You continue to earn my _beyn_.”

“Your scorn, yes, Sahkriimar…” The boy hangs his head and waves goodbye to Brynjolf. “Thanks for complimenting Clucky.”

“Clucky’ll make a fine dark chicken one day.” The man grins at Mul. It helps lift the boy’s mood, but neither he nor Zaammeytiid say goodbye to the other. Zaammeytiid doesn’t return the ebony knife; they keep it on their person and escort Mul to the inn. They shove the remains of their gold to the innkeeper in exchange for _Clucky _having permission to stay.

The next few days feel like a blur. It’s routine: there’s no mention of anything out of the ordinary, only simple jobs on the Thieves Guild’s horizons. The days compound into a week and the work continues to drag on with wear, tear, and a dull nature that makes Zaammeytiid want to scream sometimes. They note Kara purposely avoids them; the woman makes no effort to speak to Zaammeytiid and goes so far as to glare or tell them to _go away _when they try and strike up conversation. The fact Kara is almost always in the company of Rune or Vex makes it difficult for Zaammeytiid to try and attempt discussing _Sanguine _matters, much less address Kara’s aggressiveness toward them.

They find Brynjolf to be less hostile, but he too acts off. He hands out jobs, makes small talk and many smiles, but his eyes hold _something _directed at them and they can’t make sense of it. Staying in his proximity—which is the easiest to do, given Rune has turned tail on any aspiring friendship between the two and everyone else either aggravates them or annoys them to no end—makes it hard to think. They know the man watches them whenever they come or go throughout the cistern; Zaammeytiid does the same thing when they’re aware he’s around. Occasionally the two lock gazes on the other but Zaammeytiid’s reaction leads them to break the line of sight and continue with their day.

The work the Thieves Guild gives them is enough to cover Mul’s inn room, plus essentials for the young boy and Clucky. Caring for a chicken drives the _dov _person up a wall but they put up with it for the time being; it keeps Mul’s mind off of killing Grelod the Kind and that in turn gives Zaammeytiid more time to contemplate how in Oblivion they will handle the old hag without _actually _going down the path of the Dark Brotherhood and leaving Kara eternally pissed at them.

The orphanage is within sight of the inn Mul stays at. Zaammeytiid can see it from the room’s window whenever they stop by every day or two. They spend spare hours toiling and watching the old woman exit and enter the orphanage. Occasionally, guards make their rounds and inquire about something or other—safety, bribes, who knows—with the old woman before moving on. A young woman with tan skin and flowing brown hair, an Imperial lady in her twenties by the looks of it, occasionally leaves to buy food before returning to the orphanage. There’s not much _routine _or _pattern _in the actions, save for the guard patrol, but Zaammeytiid’s use of _laas _provides enough information for them to start putting together a plan.

It never comes to fruition.

Almost two months later, when Zaammeytiid’s especially worn and exhausted by a rougher Thieves Guild job, they make to the inn to check in on Mul. The young boy greets them with a smile and Clucky walks over to jab at their greaves. They resist the urge to kick or shove the chicken away.

“Your hair’s growing again!” Mul remarks before he bites into an apple, one of a dozen in a small bowl.

Zaammeytiid leans against the wall of the room. They cross their arms and huff. “I’ll cut it off again when it gets long, tiny _dovahkiin_.”

Mul stops mid-bite and huffs, “I never get to cut my hair.”

“No, you don’t.” Zaammeytiid instinctively touches the ebony dagger sheathed at their waist. They’ve long-since rid of Ulfric Stormcloak’s old robes; the _dov _person wears a full suit of Thieves Guild leathers. The light armor is comfortable and easy to move in, though at times the chest piece catches on the thin blouse they wear underneath.

“Hey, do you think we can kill Grelod soon? I’m getting worried,” the comment comes after Mul finishes his apple. He lowers his head. His eyes dim. “My friends are in there. I know they aren’t dark siblings, but they’re still my friends. I want them to be safe!”

“Within the week,” Zaammeytiid states and nods. “The Thieves Guild leader says he has news for us then—Rather, for the guild. I will have _tiid _for it then.”

“I dunno why you can’t just kill the leader. Why he has to boss you around? You’re the Dark Brotherhood!” Mul huffs and sticks out his bottom lip. A dark look falls over his face and he stares at them. “…You are, right? You haven’t been lying to me?”

“I am Sahkriimar, I am not good at lying.”

And part of it is true and part of it is a lie. But Mul is a sharp one, a true _dov, _and he sees right through it. His eyes dim. “…Have you been lying to me? About—About being Dark Brotherhood?”

“If I was, I couldn’t have found you by the Black Sacrament.” Zaammeytiid’s frown deepens. “What is this about, Mullokah? You are acting strange, like a _joor_ might. You are _dovahkiin, _do not act like a _joor_.”

The child gets to his feet. He looks at the ground. “A man in a two-piece suit came by today. He said you’re a liar. He said I… I can’t trust you. He told me if I did, you’ll hurt me.”

_A two-piece suit…? _Zaammeytiid questions. “I have not hurt you before, tiny _dovahkiin—_These are not savory circumstances but—”

“He told me your name means slave of time.” Mul frowns. “He said your name is _Zaammeytiid.”_

They stiffen. _Lord Sheogorath. No. It can’t be. How is he in Riften? How is he here? Why did my Lord choose to interject in this affair? This problem? This_…

“He said there’s a way to prove it,” the child looks nervous. He sucks in a breath. “He said if you’re really a _dov_, if you’re really—If you’re someone named _Zaammeytiid_—You’d have to obey me when I say—"

Things begin to fall into the madness.

Mullokah, Aventus Aretino, sucks in a deep breath and shouts, _“Gol hah dov!” _

Their will flakes from them. They stiffen and straighten upright, compelled by the young _dovahkiin_'s thu'um. They can only stare blankly at Mul as his eyes widen and begin to water in horror. He points a hand at them and shakes his head, all the while whispering, “You _did _lie—You—You aren’t _Sahkriimar_—He told the truth—He—You—You made me think I was going to be part of the _Brotherhood_—You promised—I’d have a family—_Liar!_” His words become babbles and the boy’s eyes well with tears. He shoves past them and out of the room.

They are stuck in place, frozen and idle waiting for a command that never comes. They can’t do more than remain as they are and stare at Clucky. The chicken settles in the bed where Mul previously sat; it clucks and shuts its eyes. Zaammeytiid’s mind spins. _This is not the first time my Lord stepped in to punish me as I am now. This is a cycle of punishment. Beyn, beyn, beyn! Foolish dov, Zaammeytiid! You foolish dragon! I shouldn’t have invited him along. I should have left him in Windhelm. Let the Stormcloaks grab him, or… Anything but expose him to Lord Sheogorath! _

They’ve made a lot of mistakes, but this one hits the hardest. The second their will comes back to them—with the outside sky now dark and growing darker—they break out of the room and storm down the stairs, ignore the innkeeper shouting at them to keep it down, and bolt outside unto the dark streets. They look around for any dark silhouettes in corners, in alleys, or in the streets, but see none. The _dov _person runs to the plaza where vendors are busy packing up their goods or making last-second sales. They growl lowly, suck in a breath, and yell the words. _“Laas yah nir!” _

Dozens of red specks pop up around them, expanding across the entire city. The full-length shout of Aura Whisper is enough to see hundreds of red dots above, below, and around Zaammeytiid. It’s dizzying. Too many overlap, too many are far enough out for them to be unable to discern adult from child, and one in particle _careens _into their sight when they rip around and flinch at the sudden sight of _red _in front of them. The shout’s power fades and the red becomes replaced by orange-red hues of a disgusting-colored robe, the russet-ginger brown of unkempt hair, and the dark eyes of a Nord they are both relieved and annoyed to see.

“Lassie, what’s the matter?” Brynjolf’s hands wind up on their shoulders.

_Why are you always concerned? _Briefly pops into their mind but they hiss and shrug off his hands. The _dov _person seethes in worry but it manifests in a snap of, “Have you seen Mul? Brynjolf! Answer me, _joor, beyn!_”

“Little lad’s gone?” the man frowns.

“Yes! Gone! _Beyn, beyn, beyn,_” Zaammeytiid curses to high heavens in the _dov _tongue. Multiple vendors whisper to each other nearby and guards standing watch give them a sharp glare. They don’t give two shits about any of the _joorre, _only about Mullokah’s safety.

“—Where’ve you looked?” Brynjolf’s gaze narrows and he looks over his shoulder at the guards. They take notice and back off.

“Here! I don’t know, I just got out of being shouted to submission, _mey!” _Zaammeytiid growls. “He knows the shout—Nevermind, _beyn, _I doubt a _joor _like you understands it!”

“You’ve shouted me into submission before,” the man says matter-of-factly. “Did you check the back streets? What section of Riften? The Ratways? The cisterns?”

“I don’t know where I’ve looked,” Zaammeytiid rakes hands through their hair and hisses the words. “I don’t know the name of this useless city! Useless town! Useless streets! _Beyn! _I want it to burn, all of it—”

“—That ain’t happening, lassie—”

“_I know it’s not, _I’m not burning a town to the ground when I’ve paid good gold for the inn room!” Zaammeytiid spits each word out. They hiss lowly. “If anyones hurt a hand on his head—”

“What happened up to that point?” Brynjolf’s lack of pulling Mullokah from a hat makes Zaammeytiid’s _anxiety_ spike. The man is far calmer than they are. His gaze remains locked on them. “Zaammeytiid.”

“Someone told him I lied about the Dark Brotherhood.” Zaammeytiid grits their teeth. Their hair falls over their face and they push it to the side, agitated. “He bawled, cried, left. The _mey. _Tiny _mey. _Tiny, tiny _mey—_”

_“Before that,_ lassie, by Mara, breathe,” Brynjolf states firmly. “Anywhere he mentioned? Something he might’ve said come to mind? Oblivion, he’s just a boy, he couldn’t have gone that far.”

“The contract.” It clicks in their mind and they take off running, cursing all the while under breath and leaving Brynjolf in the plaza.

They don’t look back to see whether he follows. They sprint until Honorhall Orphanage rushes into sight. Zaammeytiid knocks on the door and, when that fails, they throw their body weight at it until the old door frame bends and gives. The orphanage is a small structure with a common room that connects with an assistant’s bedroom, a sole chamber to house what looks to be twelve or so orphans, an embarrassing excuse for a kitchen, and a room shut and locked. Zaammeytiid ignores the gasps and cries of frightened kids when they storm past the orphan’s bunks and into the kitchen space. They throw aside the table, knock over dishes, and reach for the locked room's door. At their feet, light pours out from the crack of space between the door and the floor. They can hear sobs inside against the loud, harsh snaps of a whip.

“_Fus ro!” _The _dov _person screeches the words and the locked door shudders. It doesn’t break. They pound on it and the crying increases to wails. The whipping ceases and the sound of an old woman cursing rings out.

“I’m dealing with the Aretino brat, Constance! Git before I whip you too!” The old voice _screams_ through the door.

Zaammeytiid pulls Brynjolf’s ebony dagger from its sheathe at their waist. It strains their thu'um to use so many shouts in such quick succession, but they can worry about it later. They narrow their eyes and _roar_, “_Mul qah diiv!” _

Ethereal white scales, dipped and marred in gold, flock to their form and glow over their leather armor. The rush of strength of their true form, that which they long for so badly, gives them a wave of confidence and _rage_. All the fear and worries they had over Mul’s well-being converts into raw anger as they shove one fist _through _the door and pull off a chunk. They reach through, unlock the door, and open it to the sight of a _very _elderly Nord lady standing over Aventus Aretino, their tiny dark sibling and baby _dovahkiin._ The Nord woman holds a makeshift whip in one hand. Mullokah’s upper garments are gone; he sobs where he lays with open welts and bleeding wounds pouring from his flesh.

“You aren’t Michel! Who are you?” Grelod the Kind's face has signs of age, of wear, of exhaustion and Zaammeytiid sees a lifetime of anger in her eyes. She snaps the whip at the ground. “You have no business being in here! Git out!”

“The Dark Brotherhood has come for you, _mey joor,_” They feel the push of an ethereal warmth and a comfort of a void they cannot have, and it compels them to act. They stride forward and let their eyes see only red as the ebony dagger in hand guts the old woman. They _stab, stab, stab _into the woman’s limp corpse and into mangled fleshy bits, fat and tissues, guts and gore that dangle out across the ground.

It’s terribly intoxicating and the perfect thing to satiate the blood-lust they’ve tried so hard to circumnavigate. It is their true nature, the nature of _dov _everywhere, to continue ripping and tearing and severing body parts and to free the rich, crimson-red liquid found beneath. They don’t care when their ebony dagger gets stuck in a bone, they leave it there and focus on painting the world around them in the glorious sanguine pools of blood. They don’t hesitate to feed when the urge rises; the _joor slen _is right in front of them and they are horribly hungry for true food. The _dov _person doesn’t register anything around them but the flesh of Grelod the Kind. They don’t hear Mullokah’s sobs of pain at his wounds, or the rest of the orphanage cheering and celebrating, or even Constance Michel’s—that Imperial lady they saw before—wails of grief at the dead headmistress. They don’t hear the footsteps come in, and they acknowledge the sharp exhale of the man behind them, not at first.

No, they _do _hear that—But it’s faint. A speck of sound in the madness and euphoria of blood and carnage, of their true _dov _need of devastation. They eat, they feed, they growl and splurge and gorge on flesh and the madness it inspires.

“Sahkriimar.” The voice is soft.

They snap their head back and eye the one who _dares _interrupt their meal. Their eyes widen and they freeze at the sight of Brynjolf, one shortsword raised at _them, _while their other arm holds Aventus Aretino—Mullokah—upright and behind him. Mul’s eyes are bloodshot from the pain of his injuries, and he looks horrified at them.

They become grossly aware of the gore around them. Flesh drips from their mouth and they feel a wave of nausea come over their form in spite the delicious and savory aroma.

Brynjolf’s eyes are dark when he stares down at them, the tip of his enchanted ebony blade never shifting its aim. _“Stand.”_

They stand. Their hands shake and tremble. They can’t think. They feel grossed by themself, by their own actions, and by the fact a part of them is utterly satisfied.

“I’m taking Mul to a healer. The Temple of Mara.” The man grits his teeth. “And you…”

“I’m going to get—Bath.” Zaammeytiid looks away, to the room’s sole window. Their mind is foggy. They struggle to think. They can barely form words, much less coherent thoughts. “I’m going to bathe.”

“Get out, all of you!” Constance Michel pleads from behind Brynjolf. “Out! Before—Before I let the guards in—”

“Wouldn’t recommend it, lass, not with Thieves Guild involved. Tell them to keep their mouths shut and no one else dies tonight.” Brynjolf states each word in the very kind, relaxing tone Zaammeytiid knows him best with. His gaze returns to them and he hesitates. They catch a look of something in his eyes, but they're too overwhelmed by everything to understand what it means as Brynjolf orders, “Go clean yourself up. I’ll handle this. This and Mul.”

_“Thank you,”_ the urge to say the words comes, but this time they’re too frazzled to stumble over syllables or overthink things. They speak the words in a whisper, but they swear they see a look of surprise on Brynjolf’s face before they turn, open the room's window, and climb out. They drop to the outside without hesitation and climb over the walkway railing that descends into the lower levels of Riften. The sky overhead is cloudy and not a star in sight; it is a fitting backdrop for when they finally find a dark corner of the lake water to cry in.

They are full of _krosis, _and it is all their fault.


	16. want to court a dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the month since kara and the others got back to riften, she's been up to a lot. following a heist of a captain's pocketbook, kara's asked to partake in a very strange discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy this chapter has some plot  
but it also has some fluff  
some nice moments  
and some sad ones  
AND A WARNING FOR TALK ABOUT CHILD ABUSE AND HUMAN TRAFFICKING  
cause honorhall orphanage is some dark shit and grelod the kind deserved to die
> 
> note this takes place during the middle of chapter 15, two weeks before grelod the kind dies

“I thought we would know more about that Karliah chick by now.” The words come from her left, where a nimble shadow of platinum-blond hair and sharp eyes crouches behind a crate. “Think she’s waiting for us to fuck up? I got _news _for her—We don’t.”

Kara’s brows furrow. She pulls her mask down enough to whisper a harsh, “Some things take time, _shush!"_

“I’m gonna come over there and give it to you both if ya don’t can it,” Two crates ahead, on the docks of Riften, Delvin’s words ring out faintly against background cries.

All three—five, technically, but Kara doesn’t know Rune’s location and Brynjolf’s acting as their go-to contact between the undercover thief on the ship and the Thieves Guild itself—are decked in dark leather armor under the starry Skyrim sky. The waters of Riften’s port rock softly against the wooden walkways and stone foundations while dock workers unload cargo from a large ship called _Hela’s Folly. _It’s one Kara vaguely remembers from the days when _Skyrim _was a video game, but she can’t put her finger on whether or not it’s a ship meant to be underwater or on a dock.

It’s a lovely ship, regardless of its placement or the way Sheogorath’s madness has altered it. The ship is a large two-level merchant vessel with five crew members and a captain, a slim and nimble Argonian man with dark-brown scales that could have crawled out of _Moby Dick _with the attire. Kara keeps her head low and her eyes peeled for the slightest inch of hostility as she, Vex, and Delvin wait for the shipments to finish unloading. Though she can’t make out what Brynjolf says, she hears him keep up a light and friendly-sounding banter with the Argonian captain. She’s glad, given she lacks her bow because of Mercer’s insatiable need to hoard them all since she, Vex, and Rune returned from Solitude.

_Ass. _Kara grimaces.

She knows the storyline of the Thieves Guild, but it appears that the current universe cycle has shifted the order of certain events and dawdled on specific details. Things like Brynjolf’s injuries when Sahkriimar was kidnapped, like when she was sent _with _Vex _and _Rune to interrogate and find Gulum-Ei, and the lack of any quest to date on that one meadery in Whiterun, she can’t recall the name, it all points to discrepancies between what was once the canon universe of video game _Skyrim _and the Skyrim she lives in now. It drives her up a wall to not know what people are thinking or saying or _doing_. She wants to scream on occasion from how obnoxious it is to have to untangle everything on her own; she is alone with only Sahkriimar to talk to about these issues. Last she checked, Sahkriimar’s track record with stabbing her in the back by going forward with the Dark Brotherhood questline, in addition to the _dov _persons meaningless crusades about a Daedra called Sanguine, is annoying the piss out of Kara.

“Vex—Move left, the fish cages.” Delvin utters the soft words during one of Brynjolf’s hilariously-bad stories about trying to take down a two-headed skeever in the Ratway.

The Imperial thief nods and moves through the shadows. Kara glances at Delvin, but no order comes for _her_. He glances at her and gives a nod of affirmation at her current placement. Kara resists the urge to grumble. _I can barely see the dock workers from here. Am I supposed to only watch Brynjolf and the captain of the vessel? _

Maybe, if Sheogorath feels like sparing the denizens of the current cycle, she can keep Mercer from fucking everyone over in the Thieves Guild. So far, things seem to be heading to uncertainty in that regard: Kara recalls the way Brynjolf spoke of the older man, as if the two were akin to siblings and Gallus their father.

_But he could just be… a very confused man who likes another man. But still sees Gallus as the two’s role model. I should be careful not to bring actual Earth politics to this land, these aren’t the same individuals you would find in Seattle, much less all of Earth. _It gives her a snapping headache. She sighs too loudly.

“What was that?” The Argonian captain calls from the side. “Did you hear it?? Someone’s watchin! You tryin’ to mess with _Hela’s Folly _crew, are you?”

Weapons are drawn. Brynjolf’s calm tone remains as he calls out, “Lad, that was the lake. Nothing fishy’s goin’ on here, swear it on my life.”

_Yep, that’s the signal to prepare for a counterattack. _Kara groans internally. She’ll get chewed out for it later—probably—but she unsheathes a Daedric dagger and holds her breath as the Argonian captain continues to hassle Brynjolf’s form.

“Search the docks,” The captain shouts. He growls at Brynjolf. Kara can only imagine the sight: a questionably-dressed Saxhleel staring down a man in worlds ugliest red-orange robes. “If we find _one_—Just _one_—Your head’s coming off, we’ll gut you like salmon!”

_Enough with the fish! We get it! We’re on a dock, you’re a captain, good lord in Oblivion. _Kara screams in her mind.

In the distance comes a soft bird song. It’s subtle, not entirely out of place given Riften’s portside waters are flanked by forests. Kara closes her eyes. It’s Rune’s call one’s searching for him, as per the three-notes of the song. _But what’s the signal to know which of them is undercover? On our side? Do we just… kill? No, we’re not Dark Brotherhood. Unless Sahkriimar is. _She grits her teeth and fights the urge to hiss. _Bloody dragon can’t make up their mind. _

She opens her eyes and spies Vex sneaking away and ducking behind an old wooden canoe. Kara can only imagine the spiders in there; she commends Vex for not freaking out at any hypothetical arachnids. She waits until one of the crewmen—a Khajit with smooth beige fur and curling whiskers—looks the other way before she slips east and creeps behind a line of crates. It irks her to see Delvin down an invisibility potion and vanish in place; the man has too many resources not to share.

After several agonizing minutes of Brynjolf talking down the paranoid captain, and the crewmen being run around in circles by careful sneaking, the Argonian captain of _Hela’s Folly _finally calms to the point of calling his crew off, just shy of Delvin drawing a poisoned Daedric dagger and poising to throw it from across the dock. The Argonian captain huffs and turns to Brynjolf; Kara’s glad she has the view to catch Brynjolf’s charming smile. He’s a blessing and a curse; his words are as silky smooth as they want to be while carrying an entirely different thing, “With the civil war, if any of us here don’t take precautions we’re bound to lose life, lad. _No harm _done.”

“Glad you understand. Was beginnin’ to think you Nords are all the same… Headstrong traditionalists, all about…” The captain drawls off into a spiel Kara doesn’t pay attention to.

Ten minutes later, after _Hela’s Folly _hands over the cargo, Brynjolf passes a large satchel of coins to the captain. The captain opens the bag, checks the coin, and jingles it with a grin as he waves Brynjolf away and climbs back onboard his ship. The Thieves Guild members present wait another half hour until rendezvousing with Brynjolf at the guild’s primary cistern. In the depths of the fishy sewer cistern, Rune is the first to react with a long, heavy exhale.

The man turns to Kara and throws hands into the air. “Glad _we_ didn’t have to kill anyone!”

“What in _Oblivion_ happened, Kara?” Vex peers at the woman from the side. “I thought you’d have the decency to cast _muffle _on yourself in case you made _noise!_”

“I forgot. My magicka’s been,” Kara shrugs, because she doesn’t know how to explain to any of the individuals present that something happened with a Daedric Lord and changed how she uses her spells. The woman grimaces and pulls her hood back. “I’m sorry, everyone.”

“Well. You didn’t fuck up things in the end, so I’ll let it slide. Brynjolf, you get it?” The words of Mercer Frey makes the entire group stiffen, save Brynjolf. The guild master approaches the lot with a stern gaze and careful, watching eyes. The man hasn’t shaved in a week; he has a scruff of facial stubble across his chin and jaw.

Kara glances at Brynjolf. The Nord smiles and nods at the guild master. “Aye. You doubt me, Mercer? Please, I had the man dead to rights the second he walked off the boat.”

“—But not _actually_ dead.” Rune states. A glance from Mercer shuts the Imperial thief up. He bows his head and looks to the side.

Brynjolf pulls a black notebook from his pocket and tosses it to the guild master. Mercer’s smile is sincere and equally mortifying to witness; the guild master turns and begins to flip through the book while grunting occasionally. Kara blinks. _I don’t remember this part of the Thieves Guild quest line. Unless this is Gallus journal? But I—I can’t just ask that, can I? Not without everyone becoming suspicious of me. _

“Yep, just as you thought, Delvin. Can’t believe this’s been going on long as it’s been.” Mercer runs a hand through his brown hair and growls lowly. “Someone’s been skimming the cuts coming in from the docks.”

“Do you think—” Brynjolf hesitates on saying the name. He’s angry, but he’s also mindful of the fact the guild doesn’t have _all _the information.

“Has to be, doesn’t it? Who else has the resources, Brynjolf?” Mercer glances at the younger man and frowns. “Karliah’s the only one capable of stealing our cut so easily, for so long.”

“Wait, all this time we’ve been doing these jobs—Are we just gathering evidence of Karliah’s involvement?” Rune blurts out the words Kara’s dying to say. She gives him a glance in thanks but he isn’t looking at her. The Imperial man frowns and crossed his arms. “How does a little book prove that?”

“If you weren’t so _daft, _you might understand _records,_” Delvin grunts from the side.

“Put a lid on it, Delvin.” Vex snaps. “We don’t need your sass right now.”

“Little Vex, Delvin, if the two of you could _kindly _cease talkin,” Brynjolf frowns and looks across the cistern. “How many of us do we have here?”

“Sapphire’s on the streets. Tonilia’s in the Flagon? What time is it?” Vipir comments as he emerges from the bunk hall. He looks tired and poorly dressed, no doubt just gotten out of bed and thrown on yesterdays outfit and someone elses armor.

“Go back to bed, by Zeus,” Kara shakes her head and smiles.

“Who is _Zeus?_” Vex shoots her a look.

She grins sheepishly and shrugs. “It’s a dunmer thing.”

“Delvin, I need you to cross-reference these with our existing reports. Get me a copy when you’re done; I need to know how long Karliah’s been interfering with our cuts.” Mercer strides to the Breton and hands off the black book. He looks over at Rune. “Make sure everyone knows to keep an eye out for trouble. If Karliah’s managed to weasel her way into the _docks _then there’s a fair chance she could be hiding anywhere across Riften, or even its outlying farms and forests.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to know what she looks like?” Rune straightens upright and drops his arms to his side. “Most of us weren’t here when the old guild master went six feet under.”

The statement hits a sore note for Brynjolf. The ginger stiffens and glares daggers—an expression Kara rarely sees—at Rune until the latter throws his hands back up and inches away.

“Sorry, sorry—I didn’t mean it like _that_—”

“Lad, you’re testing my patience,” Brynjolf growls.

Kara breathes out sharply when Mercer finally dismisses the lot. She means to talk to Vex, but to her surprise Brynjolf hauls her away by the arm. The Dremora huffs and walks quickly after him once she wrenches her arm free. “Ow?”

“Sorry, lass,” the apology is sincere, but the tone is strained. “Need to talk to you a moment.”

“Is this about my fuck up? I’m sorry about that.” Kara comments once the duo reaches Brynjolf’s quarters.

It’s a quaint room, albeit messier than when she last saw it. The Dragonborn peers at a mess of tomes sprawled open, empty bottles of _Zeus-knows-what_, and a collection of papers both smooth and crumpled splayed across a desk. Brynjolf turns to her once the two are alone and clears his throat. “Door, lass.”

“If you’re trying to seduce me, I’ll pass.” Kara throws the thought out into the open.

The Nord scowls. “Lass, if I was—”

“Joking, joking. You are worked up, though. Distractions aren’t a good thing, Brynjolf. I had a,” the woman pauses to peruse the choice of words. _Former Shadowscale lover _sounds right, but she can’t risk it getting back to Delvin, not after the wheel of trouble she went through to convince Vex and Rune not to speak a syllable of the things she blabbed about during the trek back to Riften. Kara exhales and shrugs. “I had a _good _friend tell me once that distractions before a contract can kill you. Maybe it was a little extreme, but he meant it well at the time.” She shuts the door and spins around to peer at him.

Her eyes dim. _He hasn’t been sleeping well. _

“Wise words. Tell your _friend _he should write a book.” Brynjolf’s sarcasm takes her aback.

She growls. “Hey, I can always leave if you’re _that_ hung up on the thing you’re hung up on! I don’t need to know! Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t drag Delvin or Vex in here.”

“Delvin’d laugh at me. Vex would laugh and invite him over to laugh with her.” Brynjolf states. He’s calmer, now, but his lips parse with hesitancy to continue.

Kara exhales and shrugs. “What do you need, Brynjolf?”

“What do you know of Sahkriimar’s past, lass?”

“Oh. Oh—_Oh, _gods, you’re joking, right? Don’t get any ideas, they aren’t—” The woman grits her teeth. Why everything comes back to the _bloody dov _aggravates her. It does more than aggravate her; she feels a ping of jealousy whenever the _dov _person gets attention that, had she been Dragonborn instead of Aventus Aretino, the attention would have fallen on her. _“What_ do you want to know? _Why_ do you want to know? What reason could a grown man have to ask for help _courting a dragon? Why do you want to court a dragon?”_

“—You think they’re a dragon too.” The man observes. He pauses. He looks nervous. “Is that—"

Kara stiffens. _Actually—I don’t know if—How much does he know? He’s not aware of the resets, right? Of consumers. Of Earth. He’s not aware. Hades, I—Can I even tell him anything? He has the authority to kick me out of the guild if he wants, but he wouldn’t—Right? _

“…How is it possible?”

Kara sighs. “You don’t want to hear the half of it, Brynjolf. I know you two are _kind of _almost friends, but—No. No, that’s not a good can of worms to open. Not that I expect you to understand the reference, it’s a dunmer thing.”

“I do.” Brynjolf strides to his bed. He kneels, opens a chest, and rummages through it.

When he pulls out a notebook and puts it on the bed, Kara grimaces. When the inkwell and quill pen follow, she sighs and plops on the floor. She sits cross-legged facing him and glares with half-closed eyes. “You’re as stubborn as they are, Brynjolf.”

“Am I? Eh, lass—No, you might be right. But stubborn is a trait I’m fond of. Got to know when to hold your own on something,” the man hums thoughtfully. He sits on his cot, opens the book, and readies the inkwell and pen. His eyes flicker back to Kara and she squints at him. He pauses. “Are they truly a practitioner of the Prince of Madness?”

“Jesus Christ, Sahkriimar told you that much?” Kara’s eyes bulge and she stares. The woman throws her hands into the air and groans. “Yeah, yeah, why not, let’s get into the _whole _story. Why not… Yes, they’re what you call a Champion of She—Are you _really_ writing this down? Brynjolf. It’s not necessary—”

“It is,” Is the man’s reply, and it is humbler and quieter than she expects.

Kara sits up and frowns. “You’re serious about this?”

“Aye,” Brynjolf meets her gaze and frowns. “Is that such a shock?”

“Tell me why.” Kara demands the information. If she’s being roped into talking about the individual she doesn’t want to think of, then she best get some kind of knowledge out of it. She crosses her arms and squints at him. “Why do you care, Brynjolf? And don’t say you _don’t,_” the woman adds on quickly when she sees the Nord about to speak. “I know you lied to Mercer about Sahkriimar shouting you out of town. You _protected_ them. Tell me why.”

“Figures, can’t fool everyone with that,” Brynjolf whistles sharply and looks to the side. His smile is soft enough to remind Kara of her modded playthroughs, where she happily romanced the Nord for all he was worth. Seeing it in front of her on him in the _flesh _takes her aback. Brynjolf taps the quill pen against his book. “Let me flip the table on you, lass. It’s a _Nord _thing.”

“It is far from a Nord thing. Don’t let it go to your head.” Kara says dryly.

Brynjolf chuckles and shakes his head. “I grew up real poor. You know what the Ratway is like, eh? I was one of those kids in Honorhall Orphanage, but I ran away before the headmistress could rid of me. Joined the streets. Met Mercer and Gallus, rest is history. But—My time at that orphanage, lass.” His lips dip into a frown and he grits his teeth. The memory, or memories, appear just as haunting to him now as they did back then. “I saw what happened to others in that place. Happened long before Grelod the Kind became headmistress.”

Kara’s face drains of color. It clicks in her head. “…Selling kids?”

“Aye. Happened to my half-sister.”

The woman jaw hangs open in horror. She stares. _This isn’t mentioned in the Official Skyrim Guide. I wish I could access the wiki, or—_

Brynjolf’s soft exhale cuts her train of thought off. “I don’t know what happened to her, lass. Probably dead by now. You know, some of us here have found _bits _of the dead ones. Fished right out of Lake Honrich. I’m a thief, a _scoundrel, _sure, let me wear that with pride! But even thieves have their own code of conduct, lass. Holding a debt over someone’s head, sure, we pick up coinage here and there. But you don’t _sell children._”

Kara understands what the man tries to convey. She nods slowly and bites her lip. “…I’m sorry, Brynjolf. About your sister.”

“Half-sister. _And_ cousin, father was a _real_ piece of work before he died,” the man snorts and shakes his head.

“What was her name?” Kara tilts her head to one side. Her gaze softens. “Your half-sister.”

“Cadha.”

“Talos guide her to Sovngarde.” Kara states softly. She looks at her lap. “I don’t know if I always believe Talos is a Divine—But in this case, I’d like to think so.”

“Aye,” Brynjolf shuts his eyes. “I have a bone to pick with Sahkriimar’s… _master. _The one who _enslaves_ them. Or I did. If he’s a Daedric Prince—That’s—_Oblivion, _what do you do ‘bout a Daedric Prince? ‘Bout _that _Daedric Prince?”

“I’m working on it.” Kara states before she can think through the words. Brynjolf snaps upright and eyes her. She winces and holds up her hands. “Hey—Hey—Don’t get your hopes up—This is a complicated thing—I know you seem _really _enthusiastic about helping Sahkriimar—But,” she thinks back to the Throat of the World, to the mountain, to her final plummet and _splat _across the mountain face. The woman’s eyes dim. “It’s a lot more complex than any _joorre _should attempt to understand.”

“You speak the language of dragons?” Brynjolf observes. “_Joorre _is… mortal? Mortals?”

“Mortals.” Kara recalls faintly. She shakes her head. “No, no. I’ve just… I don’t know, known Sahkriimar too long to not pick up _something _from them.”

“…Ah,” Brynjolf glances back at the book in his lap and its empty pages. “…Can you try, lass? To explain?”

“Dragon speech? I’m not sure— Oh, _oh, _Sahkriimar. Right. You really want to know? For better and for worse, Brynjolf? I can tell you what I know, but the world won’t be the same after,” Kara says quietly. At the man’s nod, she continues. “This is not going to make sense. And it might take more than what I can tell you in a day. Because… I don’t fully get it, myself. I’ve got gaps in my memory.”

“I’ll make time,” the man replies without pause. “For both of us. It's important.”

And he does. Brynjolf holds his word; over the next two weeks he arranges for Kara to be absent from ordinary jobs. He himself can’t pass over all work, but the Nord is resilient in keeping _her _schedule free. When Brynjolf isn’t present, he leaves her with enough pen and paper for the Dragonborn to record everything she recalls about the time both in the current cycle of events and the _former _universe. It’s not fun and games; Kara’s reminiscing crosses into the paths of the Dark Brotherhood, of Cicero, of Veezara, of Gabriella, and it makes her more solemn and melancholy than anything else. Her bizarre routine is noticed by Vex and Rune alike; both thieves offer comments on not only her lack of jobs but also the shift in moods Kara possesses.

She doesn’t see a lot of Sahkriimar. She isn’t ever in a good enough mood to address her former _dov_’s inquiries or questions. She can’t face Sahkriimar anyways; the woman remains in a sour mood whenever she so much catches Sahkriimar’s stare. Kara’s patience has a limit and she feels betrayed by their involvement with watching over Aventus Aretino, even if he _is _a tiny Dragonborn and even if they didn’t _mean _to start the Dark Brotherhood questline. In a way, Kara’s growing aversion to Sahkriimar _helps _with documenting all she remembers. She doesn’t let Sahkriimar’s perspective cloud up what she thinks is facts, and it is easier to write down the tales of the Dark Brotherhood’s former Listeners when she isn’t being scowled at by the _dov _due to the latter’s inability to grieve properly.

On day thirteen, Kara is knee-deep in recording the tale of _how _Sahkriimar got the name. She stops mid-penstroke when the door of Brynjolf’s room opens and Vex pokes her head in. “Hey, Brynjolf, you see Kara any—Oh. _Oh._”

Kara’s eyes widen. “—Hi.”

“…What are you doing?” The question’s asked but Vex’s tone indicates she’s ready to flip a table at the slightest moment. Kara doesn’t fear the woman, but she stiffens like a deer in headlights as Vex stares. “Kara? _Kara._”

“This is _not_ how I wanted things to be shared with you, Vex,” and with that, Kara gives in to the urge to shove Vex into the mess of all that is _universe _and _cycle _and _Daedric Prince sorcery_. It isn’t like she can say no; she knows Vex is more stubborn than Sahkriimar at times and it’s best to get shit in the open anyways. She doesn’t want to hide anything from the white-haired thief.

It’s nothing short of horror on Brynjolf’s face when the man returns to his chambers in the evening. Kara holds her face in her hands and utters a muffled apology while Vex snorts, “_C’mon, _Brynjolf, can’t even tell _little Vex_ about your _little crush? _For all the sass and charm you throw up, I’d say this is a bit disappointing.”

“Kara,” Brynjolf begins but shuts up when Vex holds up a hand. Kara can’t tell if he’s angry or mortified.

_Probably both. _The Dremora wants to crawl under a rock.

“The bigger question is _why_ in Oblivion you want to, _hypothetically,_” and the Imperial thief draws every last word out for all its worth, a deliciously wicked grin on her lips. “Bed a _dragon?_”

“_Vex, _that ain’t what this’s about.” Brynjolf’s tone is snappy. She doesn’t blame him.

Vex snorts and shakes her head.

“I wrote down everything I could remember, up to the fall of Falkreath’s Sanctuary,” Kara interjects and looks up, in hopes preventing the conversation from escalating further. She taps the quill pen in hand to the open notebook and grimaces. “I’ve covered the shack, _Odahviing, _the flight, the fall of the Sanctuary—Oh, Hades, I didn’t write down Babette’s reaction to jumping off _Odahviing_’s back…” The woman smiles faintly at the thought. The memory is a good one; up until that point she had no clue the tiny vampire assassin could cast a hint of restoration magic. “I’ll get to that one later. Anyways. I covered the Thalmor’s involvement with the Penitus Oculatus agents, the deaths of—” She bites her lip. “The deaths of certain Dark Brotherhood members, and… More or less what I _think_ took place in the Night Mother’s sanctuary. But the last excerpt isn’t entirely accurate. I had to piece together what I could remember up to that point, and throw in a few details of what I know from, uh, past experience. Let’s go with that.”

Vex side-eyes her and raises both brows. “I can’t believe he talked you into this.”

“Truthfully, I’m glad he asked. I was uncertain at first, but—I don’t think I can accomplish anything of this magnitude on my own. I’m not the Dragonborn anymore.” Kara’s brows furrow. She stares at the book in her lap. “I wish I was.”

“Jealousy’s a bad look for you. So is… Half the shit you talked about, but that’s mainly ‘cause I don’t get it. I’m not reading every single manuscript you throw up, Kara. Not even for Brynjolf.” Vex holds up a small pile of handwritten pages and waves them in front of the woman’s face.

Kara shoves her away. “I’m not sure how much of this will tie into Sahkriimar, honestly, but given we used to _share _a body—I think it’s important to review it. Most of it.” She purposely leaves out certain bits and pieces, like the fact she _definitely _fucked a… Someone. The Saxhleel? Besides Veezara? She can’t remember the entirety of her intimate encounters in the past universe cycle, but she knows for a fact some took place that she greatly enjoyed.

“Mercer won’t let you keep her here forever, Brynjolf.” Vex clears her throat. She leans against one wall and puts a hand on her hip. “She’s got work to do. We all do.”

“I know, little Vex, I’m doing what I can.” The man sits on his cot and grimaces. “I think Mercer’s been sending Sahkriimar on more jobs lately. Can’t tell if it’s a good thing or not, but I rarely see them in the cistern. Or above, for that matter. At least it gets them coin to cover Mul’s room.”

“Aventus Aretino is _still_ with them?” Kara’s eyes darken and she growls lowly at the thought. “Did the headmistress of the orphanage die?”

“I don’t think so?” Vex shrugs. “Why?”

“Keep an eye on that building,” the woman replies with a grimace. “The kid with Sahkriimar, Aventus Aretino—”

“Mullokah, actually.” Brynjolf corrects her.

Kara frowns. “Mullokah. Mul. _Him. _He’s contracted Sahkriimar to kill the headmistress at Honorhall Orphanage. If you see them going that way—That’s why. If Sahkriimar kills the headmistress they will trigger the Dark Brotherhood to look for them. I do _not _want that to happen and neither should you. I don’t want things becoming more screwed up than they already are with the Thieves—” She stops in her words but Vex and Brynjolf alike eye her with an intense gaze. “—Guild.”

“What’s going to happen with the Thieves Guild? Kara—” Vex pushes herself upright and strides to Kara’s side.

“Hard to say,” the woman bites her lip to avoid saying more than she should. She doesn’t know the extent of Mercer’s or Karliah’s or _anyones _involvement with Gallus’ murder. She can’t risk things being different by Sheogorath’s hand, and she definitely can’t outright tell Brynjolf that the man he thinks of as kin is a murderer. It’s hard enough for the two to be on the same page with _Daedric Prince sorcery. _Kara looks at Brynjolf and frowns. She goes for two truths and a lie, “Sheogorath has a lot of influence over this universe’s events. A lot more than you think. I’m not sure what will happen but I doubt it is going to be good. Each universe is… different, in its own way.”

“Is there anything you _can _tell us, lass?” Brynjolf parts his lips. “This guild’s our home. Yours too.”

“Don’t let,” Kara shuts her eyes and pauses. “Don’t let anyone go to _Snow Veil Sanctum._ Don’t say the name aloud, either. I think someone _is _genuinely involved in screwing the guild over but right now I’m not sure who it is and I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

_“Snow Veil Sanctum._ Easy enough. We don’t let anyone go out to wherever it is, easy-peasy.” Vex huffs and nods. “Anything else you _want _to share? Kara?”

“I mean. I guess this is mainly for Brynjolf, but there’s one topic I didn’t write about here,” Kara looks back at the quill pen and turns it over in between two fingers. She sighs. “Did Sahkriimar tell you about a man called Cicero? They may have called them by the phrase ‘my fool.’ But in dragon. Something _mey_. I don’t remember the first word of it.”

“Not to memory.” Brynjolf’s gaze dims. “Who was he?”

“If you asked Sahkriimar now, they would say ‘he is no one.’ Because he _lives_ in this cycle. But in the last one—He was… their fool.” _And mine too, _but she keeps that to herself. Kara sighs wistfully and lets her shoulders fall. “They never shut up about him being _worthy of the sky_. Which, frankly, I understand, but I think there’s more than just one _man _in the world that could be ‘worthy,’” she does air quotes, which Vex and Brynjolf alike blink in confusion at. “of the _sky._ It’s that _dov _pride of theirs speaking. I know they sold their soul to a Daedric Prince but sometimes I think it did nothing for them given their attitude in this universe.”

Vex whistles sharply. “Yeah. Agree.”

“Anyways. There you have it, the chaotic and wish-wash story of Sahkriimar. …And of me, technically, as far as Skyrim goes…” Kara shrugs.

“Mind if I ask a couple questions? Since we’re _throwing _things out there—Why do you care about this person? What am I missing, Kara?” Vex sits next to Kara and wraps an arm around the woman’s shoulders.

Kara’s face heats up. She hadn’t intended to let it slip, but her restraint and management of her _own _itty-bitty crush on the Thieves Guild’s best infiltrator shows. She scratches her cheek and keeps her gaze to the side. “When you’re half of a soul with a _dov_—You get to know them in a way no one else does.”

“If you tell me you’re _also_ trying to bed the winged-lizard-wannabe, I’m cursing this place to Aetherius and back.” Vex warns.

The Dragonborn _laughs_. She shakes her head. Any issues with feelings toward _the guild’s best infiltrator_ dissipate in the warmth in her chest as she grins. “No, no. That’s only Brynjolf. I’ve got my eye on someone else.” Kara’s grin is as wicked as… _someones, _that’s for sure. She pauses when she looks at the Nord on his cot. Brynjolf’s brows furrow and he stares back at her. She chuckles. “Sorry, this is about Sahkriimar again—And I won’t judge you _too_ much for it, but why—”

The man flops on the cot and turns on his side, back facing the two thieves. He grunts. “…They have silver eyes. None of the lads or lasses at Helga’s Bunkhouse got those eyes.”

“That’s it?” Vex snorts and nudges Kara in the side. "Brynjolf, I thought it was because you two are fucking. Ain't that what you told Mercer?"

“And _that’s_ my cue to leave,” Kara puts aside the book, quill, and inkwell, stands, and brushes her breeches off. She pulls Vex to her feet. Kara gives Brynjolf a parting glance but finds he still lays on the bed, no doubt tired if the bags under his eyes were any indication earlier. She shakes her head. “Just… I’m not going to tell you what to do, Brynjolf, as far as _you _and what you feel. But—Be careful. Don’t do something because of how they _look._ They have baggage—”

The snore that comes from the bed makes Kara grimace, if only at how absurd the entire thing. She shakes her head and lets Vex pull her out. The two women reconvene in the halls of the cistern, wandering around the guild’s area and meandering while most of the guild sleeps.

“So, there _was_ something else I didn’t get to ask. Mainly ‘cause Brynjolf was there. I don’t mind heckling him, but I ain’t having him heckle _you,_” Vex pauses and crosses her arms. She eyes Kara and the latter blinks. “I saw one of the papers—It talked about a dunmer, Gabriella? You wrote a lot about her eyes and lips.”

The Dragonborn’s entire face becomes a crimson red. She stiffens and looks to the side. “—Sheer coincidence, _really, _we’re all a bunch of adults talking about relationships like we’re nothing more than teenagers and—And—You bring _her _up—”

“I guess I was just _wondering_,” the Imperial thief scowls. “If you wrote that because you were being _nice_, or if you wrote it because—”

“Because I liked her.” Kara swallows. “I just… I never acted on those feelings, Vex, but I _liked _her. I liked Gabriella a lot. Toward the end of the cycle—”

“The what?”

“The universe resetting!” Kara snorts and shakes her head. “Look, toward the end of _that _universe and the whole start of _this _one—Things were… moving forward. And it was really, really nice,” pink dusts her cheeks and she smiles faintly at the memories. “She was such a tease. A real scumbag, too, pranking me and the other members of the Dark Brotherhood. And she liked a vampire named Alysoin but,” her breath catches in her throat. She freezes in place and bites her lip. _That _memory is a lot less pleasant. “…But Alysoin died. Alysoin was executed in Solitude, publicly. Gabriella saw her die but got away herself, only to go to Falkreath and find the sanctuary there, her _home, _destroyed. Gods. Why’d Astrid have to do it? Why did it always have to turn out like that? Someone always dies—Someone _always _dies, Vex.”

The other thief stiffens. She lowers her arms to her side and eyes Kara with a sincerely concerned look. It’s almost soft, in its own way, but Kara can’t meet it more than a second as her own eyes water. Vex pauses. “…That sucks."

“Yeah,” Kara wipes her eyes and hisses. “I’m trying to keep it from happening again.”

“And you’re trying to help Sahkriimar.”

“I promised I would help free them from their suffering,” Kara whispers. The woman holds her head in her hands. “I’m starting to think I can’t—Vex. I’m starting to think its impossible. And _Gods, _I’m so _angry _at them—For everything—For all the ways they _keep _fucking up! But I still care, I care, I do—I still want to _help_ them,” she cries into her hands. “I want to help them! I want to stop this madness! I want to—" She can’t think of words, only of the grief and pain and the need to be strong when she’s always wanted to fall apart.

She’s come so far as _Sloan, Kara, She,_ but everything hangs over her head and leaves her with more grief than before. She wants to bury herself away, lock herself in the dark, forget how to feel and remember and what its like to experience _so much _pain again, again, again—

Warm arms wrap around her. It is a hesitant embrace, and the woman freezes. When she opens her eyes and stares through a teary haze, she sees Vex has her. The other woman holds unto her quietly, tightly, like she’s uncertain if it’s okay to let go. Kara’s eyes widen. Then, the tears come back.

“I’m sorry.” Vex says softly. Her hand runs up and down Kara’s back gently.

She can’t say anything in return, so Kara lets herself go; she lets herself cry on the white-haired woman’s shoulder. All Kara thinks about that evening is the feel of arms around her, the weight of the world crashing to the ground, and how desperately she wants to stay in the safety of someone strong like Vex forever.


	17. i don't want to be alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zaammeytiid is left a mess by the emotions of the universe's reset catching up to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for self-mutilation/self-harm  
and also for just really shitty self-deprecation

It’s easier to avoid people than acknowledge the fact they, a _dov, _a creature of the _lok, _blessed by Akatosh himself, champion of a Daedric Prince, is in fact a _mess _of jumbled words and emotions.

They can’t avoid everyone. Certain things must be tended to: Guild jobs must be done, money has to be made so Mul has a room and both him and Clucky have food, and they have to inevitably deal with vendors staring at them and their hair when they restock on supplies. They try not to focus too much on it. They _know _Kara hates them, they _know_ Mul’s scared of them, they _know_ the Guild snorts or snickers when they are around. They _know_, they aren’t oblivious, and it kills them on the inside to know that even in Riften, even with _Kara, _they have no one but themself for company. If not for Brynjolf, they wouldn’t even have Mul; the Nord is the only reason Mullokah didn’t bleed to death during _that _night.

Grelod the Kind is dead. It’s been twelve days. They know Mercer’s probably given the entire guild insight on what is going on with the Karly chick, but they don’t have energy to care. They can’t afford to. They want the cycle of punishment, _their _cycle of punishment, to end. They want to go back to Lord Sheogorath’s side. They want to fly, to soar, even if it is in chains and shackles. They want nothing more than to be free of the mess that is their pathetic, short, scrawny _joor slen_ body. They have a lot of wants. The wants go unanswered; Zaammeytiid carries out their duties with an increasing detachment, empty of anything but self-deprecation and shame at their own actions.

Even with the blessing of a god, of an _et’Ada, _they are nothing more than a _dov _born to kill.

Eventually, either out of annoyance or aggravation, they find Kara picks up on their mood shift. They don’t mean to stay in the cistern long enough for anyone besides Mercer to say hello—and Mercer never says hello, only tells them about a job they dutifully accomplish—but on the way to the exit corridor they run into their former Dragonborn. She looks good; she has a glow to her cheeks, a skip to her steps, and enough energy to snort and laugh at whatever joke the white-haired Imperial thief tells. When the duo notice Zaammeytiid, the Imperial thief shushes immediately and Kara’s smile fades. They meet her gaze but offer nothing more than a simple, “Move.”

“Sahkriimar. Where have you been?” Kara states. “Vex and I—We’ve been looking for you _everywhere_. How in Oblivion do you move so fast? Vex, go grab Brynjolf—"

“_Move, niid dovahkiin._” It’s more aggressive the second time around. Their mind doesn’t think when Kara stares at them. All that functions is the basic instinct to _carry out their damn duties _and _make their Lord proud. _They embody defeat, and they have accepted it.

When Kara remains standing—at least the Imperial thief has the decency to run off—Zaammeytiid shoves past her and keeps walking forward. Kara shouts after them, “Where do you _go? _You can’t run away from your problems! I need to talk to you—You _know _I do, Sahkriimar! Sahkriimar! _Sahkriimar!” _

They make sure to shut the mausoleum’s entrance behind them. For good measure, they wedge a rock in the opening mechanism. It can be easily removed, but they like to think it will annoy Oblivion out of the next person to try and leave _that _way. The _dov _person stares blankly at it before uttering a sharp, _“Laas yah nir_.”

It confirms _someone _tries to open the hidden exit. They count two blobs of red in the corridor far below Riften’s ground level. Zaammeytiid shakes their head, turns, and leaves. They glare sharply at any guard that tries to stop them. The trees are changing colors and they find the leaves fall gently from forest canopies as they stride into Skyrim’s wild lands and settle on a bank of Lake Honrich. They feel a ping of _something _when they find Goldenglow Estate in utter ruins: the destruction caused by Alduin’s attack is not to be trifled with. Not even bandits keep to the ruins; the entire set of islands is little more than charred black soil and rubble now. The unsavory nature of the Estate’s demise poses one good thing: not a single soul ventures out to the wastes.

None except them.

They clamber through the lake waters as the sun beams down overhead. It’s a short swim from the banks to Goldenglow’s ruined shores. They spend hours picking and messing with ash and soot. It makes a large mess of their leather armor and clothes underneath. Though entertaining at first, eventually it wears on them. They inhale deeply, allow their thu’um to take control of their lungs, and breath out a shout of, _“Strun!” _

The call for a _storm _rallies clouds overhead instantly. It’s not the full-length shout; it is merely enough to force rain to fall in a gentle shower. They sit on a rock and let the storm drizzle overhead, until their _joor slen _is soaked head-to-toe. Then, they climb into the lake waters and let the waves wash over them. It’s soothing to their body; they shut their eyes and exhale sharply. After a moment, they tear off their armor and set it on the banks of the ruined Estate. They find the water calls to them, and it is easier to navigate in thin breeches and a light blouse versus the entire set of leather they usually wear. They only keep their hood up; they’ve grown to despise their _joor slen_’s hair after realizing _it _is the cause for so many stares.

When the _dov _person finishes washing in the lake, they climb unto the banks of Lake Honrich and wait the storm out. By the time it is done, the sun is lowering and there is little light left. They grimace at the sight of a flock of birds flying overhead in a v-shape formation, “Even the _raan _are worth more than me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” the words make them jump and they rise to their feet. They turn and find Brynjolf standing up the bank, one hand on a tree to keep himself steady as he walks down the slope to them.

They eye him warily. They are not in the mood for _anything_.

“_Joor, _go away,” the _dov _person waves him off. “I want to be left alone.”

“Alone for how long, lassie?” Brynjolf stops a yard from them and frowns. “A week long? Twelve days? Long enough to mess with how the guild gets up and down? Vex was pretty pissed to have to wade through the Ratway and fix that.”

“If you _joorre _stop following me—It would not be an issue.” Zaammeytiid snaps. They cross their arms and leer at him behind their hood.

“We’re your guild mates, Sahkriimar.” The name stings to hear, much less from him. Their eyes narrow and they feel the urge to shout _gol hah _rising as Brynjolf shrugs and goes on, “Do _dov _like to run from all their problems?”

_Gods, _they want to _scream_. The question sounds so painfully like something Cicero would say that they tense and ball their hands into fists. Sahkriimar growls loudly but Brynjolf doesn’t flinch. “Don’t press a _dov, mey joor. _I bite.”

“Is that a _promise_, lassie? I’m into it,” the man’s tone remains calm and collected. He tilts his head to one side and looks at them expectantly for a response. But when none comes, he continues. “Look—”

“I will shout you to leave.” It’s a threat. They don’t care. They want to screech and roar and rage and _him _being there, reminding them of _Cicero_, is an utter… agony. They feel the pain billow up like great plumes of smoke. They feel the scream on their tongue and teeth. They want to call upon their thu’um, they want to inhale the words of _gol hah _and force the man to _walk _far, far away. Part of them hopes he gives up and leaves, but another part of them is too grossly aware of the fact he is tougher than most _joorre. _He is the second head of the Thieves Guild and privy to too much as it is.

“Do it, lassie,” Brynjolf’s challenge aggravates them. When he strides forward and meets them head-on, looking down at their _disgustingly short _form, they feel their heart rip itself in two. The Nord man’s eyes are hard as rock and situated perfectly on them.

_There’s no laughter in those lips, or mirth in those eyes, or… _The thought runs itself dry.

Brynjolf’s gaze doesn’t move.

Color drains from their face. They can’t do it. They know _he _knows, too, and that frustrates them to no end. The damn _joor _has too much _mul _going for him. He knows how their game works, how their threats play out, and how to push them _just enough _that they want to rip him apart in more ways than one. It’s an abhorrent feeling, far from anything worthy of the _sky_, and it makes them _sick_. They feel nauseous when he doesn’t back down or move away. They lift their hands to shove the man away, push him from their face, make it known they are _far _more capable than he is at winning the approval of the _lok_—But their hands linger there. It feels nice to have someone else present, close, _around_. It’s nice to not be alone.

“You should,” the _dov _person pauses. “Go. Now.”

“Do you want me to, lassie?” Brynjolf asks politely, in the voice that keeps them a flurry of things that reminds them of Cicero _again_. They hate the feeling, want the feeling, need it, hurt from it—Mourn it. They grieve it, because it is not the feelings of their _dii mey_.

Cicero is gone.

“I don’t know what I want.” Their voice becomes the defeated tone it was always meant to be. They pull their hands back, turn away, and sit on the shore at the water’s edge. The cold waves lap at their bare feet. They don’t care enough to swim back and find their armor. They need the cold to hit them, strike them, skin them alive, anything to remind them that they are still _there _and not merely a whisp of a soul that does not own itself anymore. They hope Brynjolf leaves—a part of them doesn’t—and to their mixed myriad of horror and surprise, relief and worry, he doesn’t. He sits next to them on the bank of Lake Honrich. They have their knees drawn up, but he sits cross-legged and glances at them from the corner of his eyes.

“Out with it. Brynjolf.” Their voice is hoarse. It isn’t a command, just a partially-muffled statement telling him words with little meaning.

The man hesitates. “Kara told me things.”

They snap upright. A look of raw horror dawns on their face. They begin to stand, to scoot away, to leave, run, _somewhere _and _something _they haven’t made up their mind on yet, but Brynjolf pats the ground next to him. They pause, then slowly sit down, albeit farther from the thief than he indicated. Their voice echoes their own internal disgust as they ask. “How much did she tell you?”

“Most of it, I think.” Brynjolf whistles sharply. “I asked her to.”

“Why would you want to know such things, Brynjolf?” Their voice is far too mortal, far too much like an actual _joor _voice for them not to shake. “You are of the ground. The ground does not need to care for the sky.”

“Eh, lassie, I still struggle to follow a lot of the things you say. You _and _Kara. I’m not… I don’t _get _it, not like she does. Or like you do,” the man shrugs. He tuns to them and pauses. “But I did get a better idea of what you are like. Or—Why you are like _this_. It filled in gaps. Of course, it didn’t do much for seeing it in person—But—"

“That is who I am, Brynjolf.” The _dov _person makes it clear and known in one solemn statement.

He’s not convinced. The thief crosses his arms and shrugs. “I don’t believe that, lassie. Not all of you. Sure, maybe a _dov _or two crawls around that lovely head of yours, but not all of you. A _dov _wouldn’t adopt Mullokah like you did.”

“I did not adopt him.” Zaammeytiid frowns.

“But you did, in a way,” Brynjolf begins picking through pebbles on the shore. He finds a flat, round one, stands, and pulls one arm back. Zaammeytid stares and watches as he throws it forward; the pebble goes skipping across the surface of the lake eight or nine times before disappearing below the waters. The man huffs. “Mul is still fed and cared for. Roof over his head, even if he says the inn’s real boring. Tryin’ to train that chicken. Clucky. He’s… a bit more accepting of the fact you lied to him, which you _did_, but also—grateful. You did kill that lady. Grelod the Kind.”

“I ate her.” Zaammeytiid looks away.

_“She deserved it.”_ Brynjolf’s words are nonchalantly spoken but the look in his eyes when he locks eyes with Zaammeytiid is deathly serious. The man pauses. “Lassie, I’ve grown fond of you, y’know.”

“There’s your first mistake.” The _dov _person states quietly.

“I disagree.” Brynjolf finds another smooth, round pebble on the bank and throws it the same manner as before. It skips ten times. He grins and nods. “See that? _That _was a good one, lassie, that’s how you skip stones!”

“What does that have to do with anything?!” Zaammeytiid grits their teeth. They don’t _understand _him. They rise to their feet and clench their fists and eye him like he’s worlds worst salesman because _he is_. He only ever chuckles, he doesn’t know how to dance, he seems to lack in jokes and take things too seriously and _cares _and it makes them want to tear out their eyes and feed them to the sky. They _don’t get it. _He’s _not Cicero. _He can never be Cicero. He can never be their _mey, _their jester, their fool, their beloved, adored mate that was _stolen from them. _

The man notices their seething, silent form. He pauses and lowers his hands to his side.

“I know about Cicero.” He states.

Their eyes widen. “That—”

“I’m not _him,_” Brynjolf adds on. His eyes dim. “But that doesn’t make me care any less, lassie.”

“Don’t talk about him, _please,” _Their eyes well up. They can’t do it. They can’t handle thinking about the jester. They can’t, they can’t, they _can’t. _They rake hands through their hood, their hair, their head. They grit their teeth and clench their eyes shut. “I can’t—I can’t get him back—I can’t—The one _joor—_Worthy—Sky—”

They are a mess in the madness of Lord Sheogorath, the one they must repent to, the one they disobeyed, and they are all-too-aware of it. His energy blesses them with a chance to atone, but it curses them to watch others from the ground and to never, _ever _soar. They loose a scream in agony at the thought; their mind feels like it’s breaking and they can’t handle how desperate and lonely and grief-stricken they are. They can’t make sense of the overwhelming _joor _emotions that spike their heart and mind and soul into a frenzy. They can’t _think. _They begin to claw at their own arms; their nails rip through sleeves on their own blouse and they dig into their _joor slen_’s abhorrent squishy flesh. They screech and shout and snarl when they can’t inflict enough pain fast enough. They _need _it—They need to punish themself, just like Lord Sheogorath wants! They need to repent! Atone! Beg for forgiveness!

Two hands grab their wrists. They snap and growl and lurch and struggle with Brynjolf, to the point they look him in the eyes in their own fog of suffering and roar the words, _“Mul qah diiv!” _

Orange and green scales coat their form. The strength of a _Dov _returns to them. It is a brief moment of peace, of comfort, before focus returns and they start to struggle. The man refuses to let go in spite of their endless cursing in both the tongue of _dov _and common speech. When they throw their body weight against him and send both rolling around shallows and banks alike, his grip only tightens and the two wrestle it out. He has body mass and muscle, they have the Dragon Aspect shout and surging, volatile emotions behind them.

But he has the experience they lack as a _joor_. He’s smart enough to anticipate their headbutts, quick enough to wrangle their legs and keep them from drawing their knees up and kicking him off, and patient enough to not let them go and fuck off. They can’t keep up the shout forever; after a time it begins to flicker and fade from their body. They curse and scream and yell at him with every last bit of sorrow and pain welled up in their _joor slen_’s aggravatingly short form. They call him every profanity in the book, all the words of hate in both the language of _dov _and common speech, and they continue to thrash and writhe even when the Dragon Aspect shout is gone and he has them thoroughly pinned in the bank’s soil and sand. When they finally run out of tears, when the sadness stops its descent into primal anger, when they can barely breath from how much they retch and shake and shudder, he peers at them. “Done?”

They stare blankly at the air. “Yeah.” _...Thanks. _

He releases them, climbs off them, but doesn’t move from their side. They sit upright and stare at the ground.

“Tell me about Cicero.” Brynjolf says softly, the lapping of the lake against the shore in the background.

Their voice is miserable, but they can’t find it in them to cry more. They shut their eyes and shiver from the cold. “He’s—A jester. Black-Red motley. Merryman, some call him. From Cyrodiil? Somewhere—Someplace like that.”

They’re too cold to argue when Brynjolf takes off his leather chest piece and wraps it around them. His tone becomes calm and friendly as he inquires, “So he’s an Imperial, then?”

“Yes,” they bow their head. “Looks like one, too. The _mey. _Always—Always wearing that motley.”

“Always?” Brynjolf glances at them.

“Almost always,” their mind drifts to Sky Haven Temple, to the last time they got to see their _dii mey_, to the one time they got to acknowledge and adore Cicero as a _mate_, an equal. The memory is bittersweet. They grit their teeth. “He’s more stubborn than you.”

The thief hums thoughtfully. “That’s hard to believe.”

“It is _vahzen, _truth,” the _dov _person whispers. They hold their head in their hands and hiss loudly. “He could cook—Too—Somehow—He made me stew.”

“I know where to buy food. Can’t cook that well.” Brynjolf acknowledges with a solemn nod.

“_Of course not_—You aren’t him, _mey,_” Zaammeytiid growls weakly. They shake their head. “I’m the _mey_. This is my fault.”

“How can it be your fault? What is your fault right now?” The questions are blunt. Too blunt. They want to keep crying at them, to snap bodies in two and burn villages to the ground than face the agony of it all, but they can’t so much as cry. No tears remain. Nothing but Brynjolf and the lonely Lake Honrich.

“I couldn’t protect Kara.” Zaammeytiid recalls the memory faintly. Their entire body aches and shudders. “Paarthurnax told her to walk off the world. I didn’t warn her about Lord Sheogorath. _I didn’t tell her I was his Champion. _She would never have—She’d _never _have gone to the Throat of the World—She’d never have been killed—This entire universe—The cycle—_Mey dov Zaammeyitid, beyn! Pahlok!” _They slip back into the tongue of their kin, the speech of _dov_, and begin to curse themself out again and again. A cold gale whips by and alerts them to the _pain _of their self-mutilations along their arms. They hold their arms up, stare, and gasp at the pain that arrives beyond the fog of guilt.

“Here, lassie,” Brynjolf messes with a pocket at his leggings’ waistband. They recognize it as one of his concealed pockets, the kind that seem to linger _everywhere _in _anything _he wears. He fishes out a recognizable red-liquid in a smooth glass vial. He takes one of their hands and gently presses it into their palm. When he presses their fingers around it, the act lingers a second more than it should.

They don’t know how to say _thank you_ without crying again.

They uncap the vial and drink the contents. It is surprisingly neutral to their palate, no doubt the work of a professional brewer opposed to the home-made shit Kara can come up with. It soothes the aches in their arms and caused their flesh to start to regenerate at a heightened rate. They stare at the flesh visible through their torn blouse; the process is fascinating to watch.

_“Thanks.”_ It slips out without them thinking it. They stiffen and look to the side, away from him.

Brynjolf’s smile, when they finally look, is kind. “…Anytime.”

They are exhausted. Mentally, physically, otherwise. They can’t stop the _joor _yawn that comes from their _joor slen_. They blink slowly. “…Tired.”

“Go back to the guild. It’s your home, lassie. Mine too. A good home, aye.” Brynjolf frowns.

They shake their head. “No. Kara will be there. I can’t handle that tonight. Not tonight. _Niid dovahkiin_. I will sleep out here,” they look out across the lake. Their eyes soften. “It comforts me to be here. To see… the destruction of another _dov. _Of the _lok._”

“Then sleep here.” Brynjolf nods at the concept. He makes to stand up but they reach over and grab the end of his breeches, where his slacks meld into his greaves and boots. He stares and frowns. “What is it, lassie?”

“Stay.” They say.

“You want me to?”

It’s hesitant.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“...I won’t leave you alone, Sahkriimar.”

When he lays down on the banks of Lake Honrich, they curl up next to him. It’s a desperate action. They need someone else right then, the physical contact and comfort of an actual body being _there _instead of just the company of their mind. The fact a chill descends as the night progresses spurs them to grab hold of him. They clench their eyes shut and inhale the smell of _Brynjolf _through his shirt. The man has a soothing presence. When a hand rises to their head, they pause. They feel his fingers slowly run through their uneven, misshapen hair. It’s soothing; they wind up pulling their hood down so he can ruffle their hair without trouble.

When they peer up at him, they see he’s just as tired as they are. They see him smile faintly considering the exhaustion. “This will be hard to explain in the morning.”

“Will it?” Zaammeytiid frowns.

“Not really. If it is, the rest of the Guild will deal with it, I’m busy,” Brynjolf’s yawn doesn’t go unnoticed. When he catches on to the fact they continue to stare at him, his smile becomes lopsided and sleepy. His tone is joking, “Like what you see, lassie?”

“What if I do?” They don’t know where they are going with it, but they say the words anyways.

His eyes soften. “Ah. That’s… not the answer I was expecting.”

They shut their eyes and rest their head against him. His hands in their hair is hypnotizing. Their entire form stills; their breathing grows light and faint. As the throes of sleep descend on them, they mumble, “…worthy of _lok_.”

But they have a dream, because the universe is full of Lord Sheogorath’s madness and mayhem. They open their eyes to find not the peaceful waters of Lake Honrich, nor the Nord thief who has a soft touch to his fingers and a head of messy hair, but instead they find a dream surrounding them in decadent delicacies and a grandiose feast hall. Dremora of different heights and increasingly revealing clothing, to the point some simply stroll or lounge nude, gorge on the many meals spread across the long, winding dining table. Souls of different individuals, none they know, tend to the gluttonous indulgences available. It’s almost sickening to see.

Then they turn and catch sight of the individual that sits at the head of the table. His eyes land on them and they stiffen. The ruby red gaze becomes a hint of surprise as Sanguine rises from his throne and growls. _“Zaammeytiid._”


	18. like foolish children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara hunts down sahkriimar and finds them with brynjolf and an unwelcome guest.

The world has a dragon problem. It’s become more evident across eastern and central Skyrim, and most prevalent closer to the base of the Throat of the World. The large mountain seems to be a calling card for dragons; everyday more and more reports of dragon sightings or dragon attacks come by courier. Not even the Thieves Guild escapes the dragons wrath; in the two weeks following Brynjolf, Vex, and herself discussing the ins and outs of multiple realities, consumers, and Daedric Princes, a report comes from a thief stationed in Riverwood: dragons are gathering, the town is gone, and more death is sure to follow. It is, Kara realizes on day ten, the result of the Dragonborns not _killing dragons. _Without a Dragonborn present to absorb souls, the dragons rise shortly after death in their immortal throes and they resume the devastation of Skyrim.

The Thieves Guild receives word an older recruit, one who was finagling ways to break into the College of Mages at Winterhold, is dead on day eleven. Thrynn was never a guild member Kara knew well, but she sees the sting of death pain everyone else around her; everyone _but _Sahkriimar. Kara knows she must address the Dragonborn, or _dov, _she isn’t sure what is the correct term anymore but she knows it doesn’t matter, Sahkriimar is the only one capable of killing the flying-winged lizards and forcing them to submit to their soul. Aventus Aretino, _Mullokah,_ is far too young to be of any help—Even if he was, Kara is shot down immediately when she takes Brynjolf aside at the Riften marketplace and inquires about the boy.

“Absolutely not.” The man replies without pause. “He’s just a little lad, Kara. That ain’t happening.”

“But someone needs to _kill _them—They’re increasing in number—Thrynn is _dead_ because dragons haven’t been slain! Winterhold should’ve been able to fend them off with the College’s help!” Kara grits her teeth.

“He’s a _boy,_” the Nord’s eyes narrow. “He’s already lost his parents, lass. You want him to go put on armor and play soldier? A _child?_”

“The dragons will keep increasing in number, Brynjolf, _damnit,_ they won’t die unless a Dragonborn’s the one to slay them—” Kara hisses, but the man doesn’t budge on his stance. She throws her hands in the air and storms off, trudging her merry way back to the mausoleum entrance of the guild.

Vex greets her at the graveyard. “Take that long to rough up some farmers?”

“I made a detour on the way back. Waste of my time,” Kara shoves the corner of a large coffin until it presses in and clicks into place. A chain mechanism moves it back enough to reveal a set of stairs leading to a ladder. She climbs down with Vex on her heels; the two women walk back through the exit corridor toward the main cistern. Kara can’t help but break into laughter when Vex shares how she dodged two guards after pickpocketing the first’s coin purse.

She finds herself staring at the one _dov _she desperately needs. If Aventus Aretino won’t kill the dragons, then Sahkriimar needs to. The woman’s eyes narrow at her former _dov_. Sahkriimar’s hood is drawn up and their hair is uneven, no doubt from the time Brynjolf told her they cut it. Sahkriimar stops a few feet out from the pair and Kara’s smile fades. She hesitates, and it’s enough for Sahkriimar to growl, _“Move.” _

“Sahkriimar.” Kara breathes the name. “Where have you _been? _Vex and I—We’ve been looking for you everywhere.” It’s partially a lie—mostly a lie—but Kara needs to make the damn _dov _feel important or valued or _something _if she’s going to talk Sahkriimar into running around killing their kin. She continues when Sahkriimar says nothing, “How in _Oblivion _do you move so fast? Vex, go grab Brynjolf—”

It’s a way for Vex to slip out from the conversation. Kara doesn’t particularly care if Brynjolf offers input. In fact, knowing _him_ from the past few weeks, she doubts he would do anything but take a neutral stance if not back up the _dov_’s actions avoiding them all.

"Move, _niid dovahkiin!" _But Sahkriimar shoves past her; Kara flinches and stares at the _dov _persons back as they march forward.

“Where do you _go?_ You can’t run away from—” She wants to say _destiny _but she knows Sahkriimar will laugh at her or scowl or _something _if Kara says anything of the sort. “—From your _problems—_I need to talk to you! You know I do—Sahkriimar! Sahkriimar! _Sahkriimar!_” It aggravates her to no end that the _dov _person doesn’t stop for a second and listen. Kara watches them leave.

“It’s the Grelod kill, I think,” Vex states when she returns to Kara’s side. The two stare in unison at the empty exit corridor. “Brynjolf wouldn’t say a word how it went down, but it was fucked. Guards been rumoring nonstop since.”

“The Dark Brotherhood hasn’t sent the note yet—The handprint. They haven’t found them yet, traced the kill, none of that,” Kara recalls with a furrow of brows. “I’m not even _angry_ anymore, Vex—Just—There’s a lot more important things than whether Sahkriimar hitches up with the Brotherhood again. Dragons are tearing through Skyrim and Sahkriimar needs to be the one to stop them because the only other Dragonborn is a ten-year-old-boy that Brynjolf’s adopted.”

“He adopted that little kid?” Vex snorts at the thought.

Kara grits her teeth and clenches her fists. “This is serious.”

“I know, I know, I’m just _saying_,” the white-haired woman shrugs and frowns. “You can’t make Sahkriimar listen to you. Maybe we should just wait a bit—"

“_Thrynn is dead because no one has killed the fucking dragons, _I will repeat it until it gets through the cranium of every last thief in this cistern,” Kara breathes the words; the statement hits a nerve with Vex and the latter stiffens as Kara snaps. “If Sahkriimar won’t talk to me then I’m going to talk to them.”

“How in _Oblivion _do you expect to do that?” Vex calls as she walks away to the bunk hall. The woman jogs to follow Kara at her side.

“I’ll drug them, gag them, tie them to a tree, and then _kindly _inform them they need to shut the fuck up and listen to what I have to say, by Hades,” Kara grabs her bow from her chest and attaches it to her back. She picks up a quiver of fine glass arrows, hesitates, then glances at Vex. “We have iron arrows, right? I don’t want to _kill _them.”

“Training room, Niruin keeps spares for Aetherius knows what reason,” Vex raises both brows. “You’ll need to watch your aim.”

“I’ve practiced enough with the bosmer to know how to hit an arrow.”

As it turns out, Sahkriimar’s blocked the chain mechanism from opening. Kara dies of laughter when Mercer orders Vex to go out through the Ratway and fix it. In the time it takes Vex to do so, Kara finishes readying her stuff. She has a quiver of iron arrows along with five glass arrows in event something gets out of hand. She keeps a length of rope coiled and attached to a loop in her waistband, she has a beautiful enchanted dwarven dagger sheathed at her right hip, and she keeps a small satchel of poisons and potions—_drugs_—strapped to her chest in a manner not unlike Brynjolf.

The woman makes for the wild lands of Skyrim after complimenting how Vex looks in sludge. She narrowly dodges the latter’s attempts to chuck a chunk of _something _at her, and she runs into the wilderness west of Riften. She has no idea where to begin her search for Sahkriimar, but she settles on trudging around the edge of Lake Honrich. The hours pass by; it is not sheer luck that alerts her to Sahkriimar’s presence, but the fact a storm _suddenly _spawns over the islands formerly known as Goldenglow Estate. In the back of Kara’s mind, she recalls how she as a citizen of Earth perused the wiki page of dragon shouts. She never used half of them, but she knows many enough to recognize their effects. The one that stands out in the memory is that of a Storm Call shout.

It’s a terrible shout for the way it harms followers, but in this case, Kara sees no lightning and hears no thunder. The storm summoned appears to be a rainstorm with an increasing torrent. She spies Sahkriimar in the lake, floating and drifting aimlessly without armor. It almost makes it _too _easy; the _dov _person has gone off and done something as asinine as parading Solitude dressed as Ulfric Stormcloak. To go without armor in the wilds is begging for trouble. She finds a vantage point far up the banks of Lake Honrich, pulls an iron arrow from its quiver, and quickly douses the arrowhead in a paralysis poison. She notches it and holds her aim at Sahkriimar’s form while the latter climbs out of the lake dressed in little more than a thin blouse and breeches.

“Aim true and steady, Kara,” the woman grits her teeth. She squints and waits for Sahkriimar to sit on the beach, a sitting duck for her bow, as she sucks in a breath and fires. A hand grabs the bow before she can let the arrow fly and the arrow silently embeds into a tree trunk. She squawks and snaps her head to look into the solemn, sharp gaze of the Thieves Guild’s second head. Kara’s brows furrow.

“What are you doing, lass? Attacking your own guild members?” Brynjolf’s voice is low, he’s aware of Sahkriimar’s presence nearby and doesn’t want to give either’s positions away.

“I’m _trying _to address the _dragon problem_ we’ve got going on, Brynjolf!” Kara hisses quietly. “If you haven’t noticed—Sahkriimar’s doing _jack shit _and dragons are dominating Skyrim!”

“So you thought to, what? Kill them, lass?”

“_Iron arrows, _they won’t kill them—If I hit a major organ, I brought health potions to heal them before they die,” Kara rips her bow free from Brynjolf. She lowers it to her side and squints. “I was going to drug them, for your information. Then tie them to a tree. And gag them. And make them hear me out so they get it through their thick skull that dragons are launching attacks in greater numbers across Skyrim. They’re the only one capable of absorbing their souls since Mullokah is a tiny kid and utterly _useless_ in combat.”

“You and I know that won’t get you anywhere with them. Lassie’s stubborn,” the Nord crosses his arms and peers at her. “It might just reinforce their desire to push others away. I’ve noticed—They’re acting strangely.”

“Since Grelod the Kind?” Kara looks to the side. She sighs. “What in Oblivion happened that was so bad it freaked out a _dov_? Brynjolf—”

“My lips are sealed, lass, sorry.” The man is sincerely apologetic, but it still annoys her.

“Fine, fine, keep the night to yourself. But if _you_ don’t have any better ideas, I’m going to go drug a Dragonborn. Sahkriimar needs to start doing something about these dragons whether they want to or not.” The woman huffs and turns away. She pulls a fresh iron arrow from her quiver and begins to douse the arrowhead in new poison.

“Let me talk with them,” Brynjolf states. “Before you pelt them with arrows—Lassie and I got our _thing _going on, after all.”

“I highly doubt that given they have the patience of an enraged frost giant and you the sass of a sasquatch,” Kara snorts. When Brynjolf raises a brow, she sighs and shakes her head. “It’s a—It’s a _dunmer _thing, you Nord—Nevermind! Nevermind. Go right ahead. But if Sahkriimar gets violent I will put them down, tie them to the tree, the whole shebang, I’m serious. I don’t entirely trust them to respond with _reason.”_

“I’ll scream if I need your help,” Brynjolf waves off her remarks as he walks away, trudging further along the upper banks to get closer to Sahkriimar.

Kara finds a place to sit. She isn’t sure what to think of it all, but she puts aside her thoughts of the Thieves Guild’s second head and focuses on watching and listening. To her annoyance, Brynjolf waits out the _entire _storm before he bothers approaching the _dov _person. The afternoon becomes evening by the time the two are talking, and it goes about as well as she can hope for. She nearly fires a glass arrow when Sahkriimar _tackles _Brynjolf to the ground in the middle of what Kara believes is a mental breakdown, but Brynjolf’s lack of screams holds her arrow back. The man told her how he would let her know if he needed help, and she must trust his judgement even if she thinks it is piss poor sometimes.

To her surprise, Sahkriimar _does _calm eventually. It’s an amusing and annoying thought balled into one. _All you need to do is wrestle a dov to make them stop mucking about? _

What makes the woman stop and stare is the sight of Brynjolf standing, presumably to leave, but Sahkriimar’s hand grabbing hold of his pant leg. Kara can only guess what either of them say, but the fact Brynjolf sits back down makes her pause.

_Oh. He actually… _Her eyes soften. Though she has half the mind to drag the two back to Riften by their ears once it becomes clear they intend to camp out, overnight, on the bank of Lake Honrich, Kara decides against it in the end. She doesn’t know _why _Brynjolf can talk sense into her former _dov_, but she’s grateful to avoid pelting half a dozen arrows into Sahkriimar’s side.

She finds a cozy tree to settle against. It isn’t the most comfortable, but she lets her eyes drift shut after a time. No one comes to Lake Honrich—No one but Sahkriimar, herself, and Brynjolf _apparently_. Kara has no qualms relaxing in Skyrim’s wilds without fear of bandits. She finds herself dozing off after a time and she lets the waves of the lake soothe her thoughts and spur her to sleep.

Her sleep is rudely interrupted by the faint sound of something stalking forward in the trees. Kara jerks awake with a silent gasp. Her eyes go wide and she snaps her head to look in the direction of the noise. It’s too dark to see much; Kara rummages quietly through her potions and downs a nasty mixture of a _darkvision _brew. She feels for consuming one of Vex’s potions, but the Imperial thief can steal her daggers or tomes or _something _in return later. She shudders and gets to a crouch as the potion’s effects go into place. Her gaze shifts and she can see shapes and trees in varying shades of gray. A very _large_ shape creeps down the bank of Lake Honrich. Kara can’t make out all of it; she sees only the large head and vicious, muscular arms as she stares.

Something about the consistency of the creature irks her. It is _there _but almost translucent in parts, as she can see through the creature in places. She silently notches a glass arrow in her bow and lifts it up. Her brows furrow. _It’s almost ethereal. Almost like it… became ethereal. Like it is a ghost, but clearly not if it’s crushing grass underfoot. _

The creature suddenly becomes a thick, full-fledged and _very _alive mass of dark blue-and-gray scales. Kara freezes as she stares at the hunting dragon, one with a slender tail but vicious spines running down its backside. Her breath catches in her throat and she can barely think. _Become Ethereal. Become Ethereal. It used a shout. It used a shout to stalk up without making noise. It used a—_

It clicks in her head what the dragon is after. It’s come specifically for the _zaam mey tiid_, for the esteemed _dov _that is the traitor of its kind alongside Paarthurnax. It’s not there to feast and ravage; it wants to _kill _and take the _laas _of Sahkriimar for all they are worth. It’s intelligent enough to avoid approaching when the _dov _person’s awake, as if it knows from experience just how many shouts Sahkriimar can use.

Kara’s face drains of color as she aims and screams, _“Dragon!”_

The arrow zips forward and buries itself in the dragon’s shoulder as a hand comes _crashing _down unto Brynjolf and Sahkriimar on the banks. A wave of sand, dust, and dirt springs into the air and Kara pulls another glass arrow back. She doesn’t hesitate to send the second of her glass arrows into the rump of the dragon; she knows it hits by the roar that threads the region. The dragon’s tail whips back and forth as it lurches forward and scuffles with a moving figure. The great beast of the sky wails in agony when an enchanted ebony shortsword plunges into its left forearm.

It hisses and bats away Brynjolf’s form like he’s nothing more than a twig. The dragon’s tail snaps at the man and Kara’s heart aches when she hears his cry of pain from the impact. She notches her third glass arrow and shoots but the dragon snaps its head out of the way, faces her and roars. _“Fus ro dah!” _

Even at a distance, the shout’s impact throws her into the tree. Breath escapes her and she aches miserably as she struggles to pick herself off the ground. She makes for her bow and watches as the dragon returns to its prey. It wants the _zaam mey tiid_, it heeds Brynjolf and her little attention even when the former manages to stand and draw an ebony dagger. Kara grits her teeth and fumbles with the fourth glass arrow. She fights against shaking hands and notches the fourth glass arrow. She curses loudly when the dragon shouts _fus ro _at Brynjolf and returns the man to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Kara misses the fourth shot.

Sahkriimar isn’t waking up. Kara curses again and again, over and over, as she fumbles with her last glass arrow. She doesn’t want to resort to iron arrows, but she will if necessary. She shouts at the dragon to draw its attention away from Sahkriimar’s unconscious form. Kara’s eyes narrows and she marches into the open, partway down the bank of Lake Honrich, as the dragon pauses and turns to her. She doesn’t want to acknowledge her fear, but the predatory _dov_’s stare makes her realize just how outmatched a simple mortal is in comparison to a _dragon_.

“The _joor _wishes to join its friends? _Mid tah! Yah dir ko maar!_” The dragon’s guzzled voice bubbles in her ears.

_The mortal wishes to join its friends? _

Kara grits her teeth and keeps her aim steady. “I’m not afraid, _dov_—”

_Mid tah. Loyal pack. _

“And what does _mey joor _do against a _dov?” _The dragon throws its head back and laughs. Her eyes catch sight of Brynjolf’s body sprawled on the ground; his gaze meets her own and he blinks to show he’s alive.

_Yah dir ko mar. Seek death in terror._

“_Zu’u hin daan, pahlok joor! Nu hin sil dii!” _The dragon rises unto its back legs and spreads out its wings. It sucks in a breath of air. “_Yol toor shul!” _

She sees the inferno’s gale rocket toward her. Kara takes her shot; the final glass arrow zips forward and flies through the flames. She doesn’t have a chance to see if it hits; she throws herself to the side as the heat of a sun blazes over her and sets her form aflame. She cries out in pain and rolls down the bank in hopes of putting the fire out. When it doesn’t work, she crawls into the lake waters and exhales sharply as the flames are extinguished. It doesn’t dawn on her that the dragon in question has ceased talking. She clambers to pull out health potions from her satchel; Kara downs two in a row and shudders and hisses as her flesh mends. When she turns to look at the banks of Lake Honrich, she’s greeted by a strange sight.

The dragon’s corpse lays on its side. It has cracks of brilliant golden-orange light littering its body. Her eyes widen and she pulls herself from the lake. “No—Don’t rise—No, no, no—” She begs the dead _dov_. “You’ll kill us! You piece of _shit—” _

A roar of gales comes howling across the lake waters. The trees shake and shudder. Kara falls to her knees and holds her arms up to protect her head. The wind zips around the dragon corpse’s form and she stares in awestruck horror as its flesh flakes off and dissipates into nothing, its skeleton lays across the ground, and tendrils of the purest, most beautiful white light she’s seen in eons launch into her body. She cries out and holds her sides as the light invades every pore of her skin, every cell in her blood, and it takes root crawling and climbing its way into the depths of her soul. Her eyes water; she heaves and coughs. She turns to the side and vomits nothing.

_I am your doom. Arrogant mortal. _She clutches her head and hisses at the words, suddenly understanding the roars and bellows and snarls that the dragon uttered. _Now your soul is mine. Fire. Inferno. Sun. _

_It’s not possible, _she finds her words frantic in her head as she crawls to Brynjolf. He stares at her, pale as a ghost, and she hisses at him in response but says nothing. The woman can scarcely keep herself together; her hands shake and tremble as she struggles to get a health potion from her bag and pour it in the man’s mouth. _It’s not possible. It’s not possible. I accepted it. I accepted I wasn't—_

“Dragonborn.” Brynjolf breathes.

“It’s not possible! Sahkriimar’s Dragonborn! Mullokah’s Dragonborn!” Kara gets to her feet and drags herself to Sahkriimar’s limp body. She shouts at no one in particular as she fumbles with health potions in her hands. _“I’m just Kara!” _

She stops at a strange sight, scarcely visible against her former _dov_’s unconscious form. Running across in a zig-zag, jagged pattern, are small lines of _white _that glow faintly against the individual’s skin. Kara rubs her eyes and stares. The cracks are present; they remind her _distinctly _of cracks one might find on porcelain before a dish finally breaks. She raises a hand and gently lays it on Sahkriimar’s face, tracing one crack. Flecks of skin _fall off _from the action; Kara’s face goes gray in utter shock at blinding white light that filters in, as if Sahkriimar’s form has a _hole _and their soul peeks through.

“By Talos,” Kara’s teeth chatter. “By all Divines—What is happening in this universe? What kind of madness? It wasn’t—They bled before! They had _blood_—What are they _now?_ What is _this?”_

Brynjolf stops next to her side. He has his ebony dagger put away and his enchanted shortsword sheathed, but its obvious the man is tense and expecting more _dov _to pop up at any second. His eyes constantly scan the perimeter of the lake. “Will they live?”

Kara uncaps a healing potion and slowly pours it into Sahkriimar’s mouth. She bites her lip and watches flesh reform over the _hole _in the _dov _person’s body. “…They aren’t dead. But—”

“But?” The Nord holds his breath. “Kara.”

“They aren’t waking up. I don’t know if they got hit. I don’t know. _I don’t know, _Brynjolf.” Kara holds the unconscious _dov _to her chest. She grits her teeth. “_Mey dov, _you always get into trouble! You know what you would tell me? _Beyn! Beyn! Beyn!” _She lowers her forehead to Sahkriimar’s and hisses through tears. “Making me worry! You are so _pahlok, neh vir zii in et’Ada. Kaal diiv. Dal nah zii, Sahkriimar._”

When Brynjolf kneels, she lets him take her former _dov_’s unconscious form. He looks as pained as she feels. Her eyes dim but she stands up alongside him.

“Thanks, lass.” The thief glances at her. “For not hitting us with arrows.”

“You should’ve screamed.” Kara frowns and follows the man when the two start the walk back to Riften under the cover of a coming dawn. “I shouldn’t have slept. Someone always needs to keep watch. This world is dangerous, Brynjolf. I’m _mey _to think otherwise.”

“You’re Dragonborn,” Brynjolf ignores all her words and points out the elephant in the room with a sigh. “That makes three?”

“At least I can hunt the damn _dov_.” Kara grimaces.

“Someone has to,” Brynjolf comments quietly. He remains vigilant every step of the way, keeping Sahkriimar clutched to his chest with scrutiny. “How does this change things, lass? For you? Sahkriimar? Mullokah?”

In the distance comes the sound of three grand _booms_. She’s too far away to know the meaning from sound alone, but she recalls the wiki: the Greybeards have called for the _dovahkiin, _the legendary hero, the one destined to save Skyrim from Alduin’s wrath. Kara shivers at the thought. She looks to the side. “I don’t know. For now—Hopefully nothing. Things are… I know Sahkriimar’s upset with me—”

“Eh—I think they’re upset at themself more,” Brynjolf cuts her off. Kara frowns and watches as his eyes glance back to the person in his arms. “They think it's their fault for the Throat of the World. I hope you know what that means, lass, ‘cause it doesn’t ring bells for me.”

Kara’s face grays. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“That’s when—When—The universe reset. Last time. I died. I died and then… There was Sheogorath. Prince of Madness. I don’t know what happened _then, _I only remember up to my death, but—But—” Kara wipes her eyes. The last thing she wants to do is break down in tears. “Gods, what a _mess _we are, them and I! Mucking around like either of us have a clue! A say in this disaster! Two caged animals snapping jaws and gnashing teeth at each other instead of the bars!”

Brynjolf frowns but lets her say her piece.

“The two of us had to work together last time because we didn’t have a _choice_—Another thing taken from us, condemned to an interwoven soul where we took turns controlling one body—” Kara doesn’t care if not even a lick of her words makes sense to the Nord. She hisses and shakes her head. “Ever since _this _world began—Ever since it became what it is—We’ve been going back and forth, quarreling and fighting like foolish children! _Beyn! Beyn, beyn, beyn, _scorn for all of it!”

She puts a hand on Brynjolf’s arm and stops both of them. The man peers down at her curiously while she grits her teeth.

“When Sahkriimar wakes up—And they _will, _so help me, I will burn the gates of Oblivion to the ground and throw Aetherius from the _sky,_” Kara vows. “We are through fighting! This is what the Prince of Madness wants! _Punishment!_! Madness! Confusion! Sheogorath wants us to fight—I refuse to let that sorry son of a _bitch _win at this game!” She seethes with her own resolve; her body shakes and trembles from the emotions that spiral around in her head like an angry _dov_’s Cyclone shout.

The man chuckles under his breath. “Can’t say I’ve heard that before, lass.”

“I’ll repeat it a hundred times if necessary, Brynjolf. To them, to you, to this world. I’m not,” Kara shakes her head again. “I’m not going to be a pushover for the Daedric Prince of Madness. Even if _I _don’t know how to stop him—I have to try. For all of us,” she falls quiet at the sight of Riften’s walls a hundred yards out. The guards are drunk at their posts. Kara smiles faintly. “Lucky us.”

“About time the guild had some luck,” Brynjolf remarks as they stride forward and slip past the dozing guards.

“Can you put them in your room?” Kara asks when she pushes the corner of the coffin into place. The guild’s secret entrance comes into view as the coffin slides to the side. The woman peers at Brynjolf and huffs when she realizes the man has stopped walking. “Brynjolf! I’m not trying to set you up for a joke. Maybe _Vex _is, but I’m not her! I just think,” Kara averts her gaze. “…They’ll be calmer—_happier _when they wake up—If they aren’t stuck in the bunk hall’s shitty beds.”

“Can’t afford to replace the cots,” Brynjolf offers a half-grin.

Kara’s brows furrow. “Don’t deflect what I said. Do you mind if Sahkriimar temporarily stays in your room? Just—Until they wake up.”

“What’s the real reason for it, lass? Why you ask?” the man squints at her.

“_Well, _since _you _asked,” the woman walks to the ladder and turns back to face the Nord. “I think they trust you. And like your smell. They were definitely a koala and you the eucalyptus tree last night. And I saw _everything_, don't try to deny it.”

“…Lass,” Brynjolf’s tone remains firm. He’s a stubborn _joor _to mess with, if only because he’s got a head on his shoulders that is more composed than most. “What is a _koala_? _A eucalyptus tree?” _

The Dragonborn’s smile becomes wicked. She begins climbing down the ladder and laughs as she goes, “Don’t worry, it’s a _Dragonborn _thing!”


	19. (smut) personally offended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sahkriimar has multiple dreams: of the myriad realms, of an inn, and of the thieves guild cistern. the last one might not be a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey theres enough smut in this (even tho its v short) to warrant labeling it  
whoo  
plot stuff and smut  
and fluff  
and questionable hot thieves in armor

They’re in the Myriad Realms. They are in Sanguine’s plane of Oblivion. They don’t know how they could be more screwed. They know _precisely _what the Daedric Prince thinks of them now. He blames them for Kara’s death in the past universe, he wants their soul but also their suffering, and he is both the sultry whisper in their ear as he is the one called for their chopping block in the form of passing ownership of their soul around like a hot potato.

_“Zaammeytiid._” Sanguine’s growl lurches forward.

The entire feast hall grows quiet at the Prince’s voice. Dremora and patrons alike cease in their gluttony and indulgences. Eyes turn and shift from Sanguine’s rigid form to the Champion of Sheogorath. They swallow and exhale sharply. “Sanguine.”

“Grab them.” The Prince grits his teeth and takes a long swig of a wine glass.

They try to take a step back, but they find a well-dressed butler waits for them. The Dremora grabs their arms from behind and beams. “Excuse me, Champion of Sheogorath, come along, come along—This way, right this way, my Lord has requested your presence in a private chamber—_Naturally, _I must escort you there—” the Dremora in question is… _Sullivan,_ they can vaguely put together the name in their head as they are dragged from the feast hall without delay. Sullivan trails after a silent Daedric Prince through corridors and winding halls until the trio arrive at the Prince’s bedchamber. Sanguine opens the door, steps inside, and Sullivan pushes Zaammeytiid forward in the same smooth motion. “Right this way, right this way! Do enjoy yourself—_naturally, _a night with my Lord is one to remember!”

Sullivan _yanks _the door shut behind him as he departs. Zaammeytiid doesn’t have a second to think before they’re suddenly face-to-face with a seven-foot-tall Daedric Prince. Sanguine’s eyes them with a lot of _things_. They barely register his words of, “Where’s Kara? What’s happened to her?”

“What do you mean?” Zaammeytiid steps back, Sanguine steps forward. They put their hands up and grit their teeth. “I don’t—I don’t understand—What you _mean_—Where’s Kara?? She’s on Mundus! She’s fine! Why don’t you go ask her yourself?”

“_I can’t,_” and the Prince’s voice sounds strained, tense, agitated. “If you did anything to her, _dov_, I will repeat it tenfold here.”

“I haven’t! I _promise! _I’ve done nothing to her! I wouldn’t,” Zaammeytiid’s back hits the door. They hiss when Sanguine steps forward and forces them to press their back against the door and its frame. “_Calm down._”

“Funny, coming from you.” Sanguine leans down and snaps each syllable in their face. His ruby red eyes are a mess of sanguine intensity. They refuse to let their gaze be pulled into the depths, but after a second Sanguine begins to lean against the door. He stares until they begrudgingly look up. “Gotta say, it is _significantly_ easier to get your attention this way—"

“What do you want?” They growl each word.

Sanguine draws back and laughs. He steps backward, turns, and walks to a night table at the left side of his bed. He pulls a bottle of alto wine from _they don’t know _and uncorks it with his teeth. He downs half the bottle and looks over his shoulder, eyes dark and annoyed. “I should be askin’ you that. Looks like we both are outta luck, champ. If you don’t know why _you’re _here then why in Oblivion would I know?”

“Because you’re Sanguine! Daedric Prince! _Beyn et’Ada! Mey! _Foolish god!” Zaammeytiid’s fists clench and they take a step forward. The look in Sanguine’s gaze makes them stiffen and freeze. “…I have not done anything to Kara.”

“But you want to.” The Prince points out dryly. “In more ways than one.”

“How do you go from hateful to talking about _sex_, _mey et’Ada?_” The _dov _person grits their teeth.

“Prince of Indulgences. Lord of Hedonism. Perhaps I’m not as _popular _as before the reset, but I hold my own. My followers are always having a good time.” Sanguine’s voice is as prideful as it is smug. He gulps the rest of his current drink and lets it drop without a care. The Daedra crosses his arms and eyes them. “So we’re on the same page, _dov_. About Kara. Because I can _feel _your desires right now, and ones of them wantin’ to know the fuck I’m talking about. Lucky you, good ol’ Sanguine is here to investigate.”

“I don’t follow.” Zaammeytiid averts their gaze.

“If _you _didn’t fuck Kara up—Or, well, in general—Then _someone_ did.” Sanguine’s gaze narrows. He strides past them to one of the large, vertical windows that stands between him and the outer Myriad Relams. “I don’t want to be a downer, but _fuck _your Lord. In all ways and then one. I doubt he isn’t involved in this.”

“Involved more than he is? My Lord—”

_“I’m not done.”_ Sanguine snorts. “But please, go get yourself off defending Sheogorath. The bastard probably screws you in his spare time.”

“Do not talk of my Lord in that manner! Lord Sheogorath isn’t _you,_” Zaammeytiid spits each vowel, furious. The heat in their face is nauseating, a result of Sanguine’s overwhelming, intoxicating presence. “He would not bed a _dov_.”

“Look at that, we’re fighting, _again_,” Sanguine’s gaze returns to them. This time he frowns. He strides to their side and leans down to peer into their shining silver eyes. “Right, we’re not supposed to do that. Kara’ll get angry. If she even finds out. I’m having trouble believing you _don’t _have _something _to do with this mess, even with that little itch of yours to know the truth. You _are _Sheogorath’s champion...”

“I swear it on my pride as a _dov_—I didn’t do _anything_ to her!” Zaammeytiid snaps. “She’s the one acting full of herself! _Pahlok! _Pretending not to know your name!”

Sanguine pauses. “What?”

“Your name, _beyn, _you disgust me, filthy Daedra,” the _dov _person makes to shove him away. The proximity gives them urges they wouldn’t normally dream of, or at the least not admit to dreaming of. “She acts like it’s the first time she’s heard of you! _Mey! _I’ve tried to bring it up with her! Tried to approach the subject! She wants nothing to do with me! She hates me! Are you _happy_, _et’Ada? _You two can go fuck in peace and let my soul waste in the depths of Apocrypha or Hircine’s Hunting Grounds! _Beyn, _for all of you!”

They take several steps back and turn away. They utter curses below their breath. When they notice Sanguine has yet to say anything, they look back and stare in surprise. They’ve never seen the Prince so bewildered, much less… _Krosis? Rahgot? No. Not sorrow, not anger. A state of shock. Surprise? _

“She forgot me?” Sanguine sounds personally offended, but they pick up an edge of the undercurrent of emotions beneath the tone: he’s stunned. “Kara _forgot _me?”

They grimace. They really don’t want to discuss Sanguine’s love life with the bloody Daedra. They want to wake up, let Brynjolf play with their hair again, and maybe kiss the man in enough time. They have little desire to have _anything _to do with the Lord of Debauchery. Zaammeytiid frowns and watches Sanguine stand, idle, not a hint of intoxication to him as the latter stares out his window. “…I do not care about you, _et’Ada, _but I would like Kara to be normal. Not under the effects of you or your kind. We should… _cooperate _on this.” They force each word out.

“How could she forget _me?_” The Daedric Prince pinches the bridge of his nose. He scoffs. “_Me?_”

“You are not reacting how I thought you might.” Zaammeytiid grimaces again.

Sanguine snaps his head at them and stares. “When did you notice this in Mundus?”

Their face blushes. They swallow. “…When we were on our way back to Riften. I brought it up with her.”

“Riften, Riften, on the way _back _to Riften, _huh_. You know, _funny _thing, I recall a couple months ago this one Nord’s desire got fulfilled. He was _all _into this blond person with freckles and gray eyes. Fucked them against a table. And a throne. And in a chair.” Sanguine’s calm smile makes them want to throw him through the window. The Prince tilts his head to the side. “Right, right, _Ulfric Stormcloak. _That guy’s had the lust to pound you into Oblivion since you met him in Helgen. Something about a breeding kink? I assume ya’ll fucked and, well, you must have done something to piss him off because now all he wants is your head on a pike.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” Is all Zaammeytiid offers in retort. They grit their teeth. “Back to the _subject at hand_, _et’Ada._”

“Oh! Yeah. Yeah,” Sanguine rubs his chin thoughtfully. The Daedra frowns. “It must’ve happened around that time. All _I _know—Is that Sullivan got summoned to Mundus by Kara for a bit awhile back. She was actively using him as bait whenever a _dov _fucked around with her party.”

“Sounds like her,” the _dov _acknowledges with a small nod.

“She summoned Sullivan to break down a door.” Sanguine continues as if Zaammeytiid never spoke. “According to my handsome butler and his _fine _rear, there was a dead Imperial woman inside with an Argonian. Kara freaked out. Told Sullivan she would summon him again in thirty seconds? A minute? Something like that. But told Sullivan to have a healing potion. She never cast the spell, we’ve been more or less locked out on that front since.”

“How is a _Daedric Prince _locked out? Of a body _he _made?” They huff.

“It’s not my body. Kara’s body is her own, even if I made it for her,” they detect a note of pride at the latter sentence. Sanguine smiles broadly. “She wants to live. I want her to live. I split my power in two, shoved it at her, and it gave her a new body. A _pretty _hot one, if I _do _say so myself. I just…” When the Prince trails off, they eye him carefully. His own red eyes dim.

They didn’t think a Daedra Lord could _mope_.

“How could she forget _me?_” The Prince grumbles and scowls at no one in particular. _“I’m Sanguine! _Good, ol’ down-to-fuck Sanguine! I give her one look and she laughs or smiles or gives me _that stare _to indicate I’ve crossed _Daedra _knows what line in a mortal’s social convention.”

“It couldn’t have been my Lord. He couldn’t force his influence on Kara,” Zaammeytiid ignores the glare that Sanguine shoots them. “_You _know it’s true. If Kara is a Daedra—Her Daedric power would shield her from his attempts.”

“Unless it was willingly.”

Zaammeytiid _laughs_. They shake their head. “Kara would never ask my Lord for help.”

“Really?” Sanguine pauses. A thought crosses his mind; they can see it in his face. What they don’t see is how quickly he shifts to be in front of them, a hand tilting their face to look up into his eyes. “Your Lord is a powerful enemy, Zaammeytiid. An irritating little _shit._ He can bend our universe to his whim to the point even _Time_ itself folds. His staff, the _Wabbajack_, is one of the deadliest artifacts my kind has ever created. _Don’t underestimate the Prince of Madness._”

They hate how arousing the situation is. They shove his hand away and tear their gaze from him. The _dov _crosses their arms and grimaces. “Listen to yourself, _et’Ada._ You imply Kara would give herself up to Lord Sheogorath. What would she have to gain from it?”

“Time. A moment of it.” Sanguine’s voice falls to a soft whisper. He’s standing next to them again, at their side, and leaning down to talk into their ear. “She wanted time.”

_“Sanguine,”_ Zaammeytiid spins on their heels but finds he isn’t there. The damn Daedra sits on his bed, dressed in only a robe and holding a glass of sanguine-red wine. Sanguine’s smirk makes them _snarl._ “You aren’t helping, _mey_!”

“You’re in _my_ home. I’m making myself comfortable.” It aggravates them how he simply _lounges _back in his bed and offers a wicked grin. “You’re welcome to join. I can even change how I look. I know you have a lot of _itches _that need to be scratched, champion. For Kara, for Cicero… For Brynjolf?”

“You are the Prince of Indulgences. Indulge in my desire for you to shut up.” They snap coldly. “How do you want me to deal with Kara? If _anything _you say can be trusted, _et’Ada, _how do you want me to _fix things? _You can’t manifest on Mundus anymore. Not without being summoned by a spell. I know you are _weak_.”

“Weaker, not _weak,_” Sanguine growls back. “Watch your tongue, _dov_.”

“This is a dream. I am on Mundus. You hold less power over me here than you could.” Zaammeytiid’s brows furrow. They bite their lip. “…No, no fighting. Cooperating. What do you want me to do, _et’Ada?_”

The Daedra Lord sits up. He lets his legs dangle off the bed and sips at his wine glass. The Daedra grimaces. “Kara had to learn the spell to summon Sullivan and I somehow. Check her stuff. Maybe she’s got a book. If you learn it—"

“You want me to learn _magicka? _I am a _dov! _Not a _joor _mage!” Zaammeytiid groans and holds their head in their hands. “Magicka is weak! _Thu’um _is the true essence!”

“Do it, okay? So we don’t have to _see each other as much.”_ Sanguine emphasizes the statement. He waves them off. “If you excuse me, I have a _lot _of souls to indulge in… Learn the spell, summon Sullivan, use him to communicate anything strange you’ve picked up on.”

They open the door to his room successfully, but instead of leaving they halt at the doorway. The _dov _person stiffens as a thought crosses their mind. They grit their teeth and turn back to the bedchamber, where they _don’t know how_ but two different Dremora—both men—are already nude and caressing the Prince of Debauchery’s grinning figure. Zaammeytiid stands until Sanguine acknowledges them. They clear their throat. “You can see the desires of all _joorre, _can’t you?”

“I see,” Sanguine pauses and his eyes drift to one Dremora at his right. He hums and steals a long kiss from the Daedra. “_Everything _eternity lusts for. Longs. _Indulges.” _

“Can you tell me the desires of a man,” They avert their gaze once one Dremora starts moaning. They feel out of place; they _are _out of place. A Champion of Sheogorath should never be in the plane of another Prince. “A specific man.”

“Oh?” Sanguine’s voice is lighter than air. He pushes the two Dremora aside and one huffs impatiently. His growl silences their reaction, but all Daedra’s eyes fall on Zaammeytiid. Sanguine climbs off his bed, keeps the robe on—thank Oblivion—and strides to their side. He looks down at them; his grin is wicked and knowing and _all _too alluring to stay around. He’s an insatiable Lord of lust and an awe-inspiring entity to piss off.

When they look at the floor, Sanguine’s hand touches their chin and slowly raises their head to look into his eyes. His gaze is electrifying.

“Tell me, Champion of Sheogorath, the mortal who has stolen your eyes?” Sanguine demands in a voice softer than fresh-fallen snow. He dips his head down to their ear and they shudder. “You’ll need to be specific. I’m happy to explore your indulgences, but you need to… open up. Take me in. Accept me, Zaammeytiid. Can you do that?”

“I’m not,” Zaammeytiid grits their teeth. Their face is red. They want to rip a _joor _in half but none present themselves. “I’m not _fucking_ you—”

“No, you aren’t, though you _want _to—Every single desire, Zaammeytiid, I know them all. But you must be _willing_ to let me _peruse_ what goes on in your mind. I’ll show you exactly what you want to know. Nothing less,” he inhales their scent. When he draws back, it is only to shift and be eye-level with their body. “You must be honest with me and yourself, _dov_. Who is it you want to know about?”

They exhale slowly. They feel weak, but a fire is alive in their abdomen when they whisper the name—

“Brynjolf.”

“The thief.” Sanguine grins ear-to-ear. “You want to know what he longs for, Zaammeytiid? What he desires? His _lusts? _Tell me the truth.”

“I want to know,” Their voice is weak as it is needy. In a dream, they are not under threat of most of the universe. Their carapace, their shell, everything breaks apart much easier.

“Relax,” the Daedric Prince’s grin melts into a charming, suave smile. “It’s okay to have _needs_, _dov_. To act on them. Especially,” and he tilts their head up and leans forward and breathes against their lips, offering them the opportunity to kiss him. They can't stop themself from pressing their lips to his. They feel a surge of heat run up their spine as Sanguine utters softly_, “—when you look like this.”_

The world falls away. They find no one around, not at first. They can taste Sanguine on their lips—they feel ashamed to acknowledge how badly they wanted it, not to mention the urge to do it again—and smell the mead of his breath in the air. They grimace and look around: they are in a dark place, a hazy one, with few details.

“So,” Sanguine hums thoughtfully, next to them in a second. He wears a full plate of armor versus his robes, but a twinkle gleams in his eyes. “You want to know about _Brynjolf? _The Nord, right? Dresses in weird clothes a lot? Can charm the clothes off any gender, rain or shine? Let me tell you—You won’t be disappointed. This here’s a… _insight_ into what he’s like. A snippet of... well. You wanted to know his lust, Zaammeytiid. I hope it pleases; I got a reputation to live up to.”

What suddenly bursts into focus and color and life around them is an inn. They blink and find Sanguine is no longer present. Patrons bustle to-and-from around them, but all of them ignore Zaammeytiid. When they try to grab the innkeeper’s attention, they stare in shock as the innkeeper shoves a plate of drinks _through _their form. It dawns on them precisely what Sanguine meant: it is a dream. It is nothing more than them witnessing a dream. They aren’t actually there, it’s all fantasy, and they find the more they look the more things are off: labels are backward, the fire doesn’t emit heat, and many patrons lack in detailed faces.

But there’s noise. A _specific_ kind of noise. It makes them stiffen in place and stare at one of the doors. They hear audible cries and shouts behind it, the thumps of a bed in use, the smacking of skin against skin—They know what is beyond the door, at least to an extent, but they feel a growing need to _see _it and make sure. They reach for the door, but their hand passes through. Slowly, they step through the door itself and enter the small inn room. They find their eyes stare at a sight that is more surreal than it is arousing: a lookalike of Zaammeytiid’s _joor slen_, down to the gleaming gold hair, the freckles, and silver eyes, is nude and bent over the edge of the cot. The lookalike’s face is flushed red, their brows drip sweat, and the lookalike’s mouth hangs open in ecstasy as a Nord thrusts into them.

_Creak. Creak. _The bed shakes and rocks into the inn walls with each second. Zaammeytiid feels heat grow in their abdomen as they watch a ginger-haired man pump into their lookalike from the side. Brynjolf looks so thoroughly _focused _on the intimate act that he’s almost un-recognizable; his hair is tussled far beyond the usual, his face scrunches up as he keeps the rigorous pace going, and scars Zaammeytiid didn’t even know he _had _are present in full view. They easily pick up on the smack of their lookalike’s and Brynjolf’s pelvises from where they stand.

They feel like a voyeur. Even if it is a dream, even if it is a dream with what is a copy of _them, _they clench their fists and force their gaze away. The feeling that shoots through their body when they lookalike cries out Brynjolf’s name in orgasm makes them want to… They don’t know. _Join them _isn’t on the list.

But the sounds Brynjolf makes, all his moans and pants and grunts as he finishes in their lookalike’s body, it makes their heart thud in their ears. The sounds are so _real _and intimate and wild. It tempts them. They look at the couple on the cot, now sitting side-by-side and entwined in one another. They look at the dream Brynjolf, at his euphoric expression, at the smile on his lips when he takes their lookalike and kisses them, at his sharp, warm eyes when he stares down at their lookalike… Everything from the ripple of his muscles, to the sheen of sweat across his face, to the laughter that emerges from _something _their look alike says—It seems right. It seems _peaceful_, beautiful even, to bear witness to the afterglow.

“Worthy of the sky,” Zaammeytiid says aloud, soft and strangled.

What they don’t expect is for the dream to suddenly warp and change. All of a sudden they aren’t standing in a room and watching a duplicate bed the Nord; they are alone in the room with him and he stares directly at their form. They freeze in place and eye him in disbelief.

_“Sahkriimar?” _Brynjolf is mortified.

They wake up with a silent gasp.

It’s not familiar territory. They don’t recognize the room they’re in. The smell, _kind of_, but that is irrelevant when they _know _they fell asleep on the bank of Lake Honrich. Their entire body aches in pain; they struggle to sit up or move to no avail. Their eyes flicker quickly around the room and they soak in the sight of a sole lit oil lamp atop a night table, a desk, messes of paper covering the room head-to-toe, and a chair at their bedside with none other than… _Brynjolf. _

He’s asleep, arms crossed and leaned back into the wooden chair. The man looks weary even in sleep. They frown and watch the rise and fall of his chest. They’re grateful he still wears clothes, and a glance down tells them _they _still wear clothes, and they are happy _both _wear clothes _and no clothes came off _given the chaos of everything they just went through with Sanguine, with the dreams, with the news of _Kara _possibly being involved with _Lord Sheogorath _of all Daedra. They shut their eyes and exhale slowly. “Unholy matron, give me _mul _to not lose myself to the madness.”

They hear a groan from their side. When they open their eyes, they see the Nord yawn and push himself upright. His eyes catch their own and the two stare at the other. Red creeps into both individual’s cheeks, and Zaammeytiid can’t tell if it’s the same reason or not.

“…Morning, lassie.” The Nord smiles faintly. “Surprise. You’re home. Kara suggested you stay here. I promise, it wasn’t my idea."

“So it’s your room.” The words come out more reluctant than they want them to be. Zaammeytiid manages to sit upright with some help from the Nord. They grimace at a throbbing headache. “…Did you sleep?”

He doesn’t respond. When they glance at him, they see he purposely avoids looking their way. The Nord pauses. “…Lassie. Did—”

“That’s not an answer.” The _dov _person mumbles.

“I—You didn’t have a dream, did you_? Of an inn?”_

It clicks in their head. It wasn’t a dream of the past; it was an active dream Sanguine shoved them into and let them see. It _just _happened.

They are grateful that rage bubbles over before the heat in their face does. They don’t hesitate to break into a soft spiel of _dov _curses and obscure profanity. The anger gives them the strength they need to shove their legs off the bed and stand. They underestimate how much pain their body is in; the _dov _person can scarcely stand up straight. They hear Brynjolf rise to help them; they reach out for something to balance themself on and a hand winds up Brynjolf’s chest. They reel back like he’s a venomous snake, but it’s too much of a strain on their winded body and they crash to the ground. It happens too quickly for them to understand, but the man tries to catch them before they fall. He doesn’t.

It hurts to hit the ground. When they can make sense of _what _just transpired, they see the Nord nervously glance down at them. “Lassie.”

They can barely think with how his body presses on theirs.

“This isn’t,” Zaammeytiid fumbles each syllable. “Lake?”

It doesn’t register until he stares that they aren’t the one on the ground. Rather, in the mess of things, Brynjolf was the one to hit the floor. They lay on top of him, hopelessly dizzy in the gleam of his eyes, and _their _body presses against his—not the other way around. They freeze and stare while Brynjolf sits them both upright. His voice is tense when he says, “Lassie—You should get off. Me.”

He's so perfect from that angle. So close, so warm, so _everything _they want and need and long for. They've become painfully soft for the man, to the point just looking at his eyes makes their heart thud in their ears. They feel his gaze on them and they lose themself in his beautiful brown eyes, utterly perfect of their own accord. Brynjolf is not a jester; he is something else. But at that moment, at that second, they want nothing more than to bury themself in him and breathe in his scent. They want to be close to him. They want to be _near _Brynjolf. The proximity overwhelms their brain. They forget about his question in the haze of the man's presence.

“Can I stay?” They look up at him. Their hands shake from their own nerves as they whisper, "With you."

Brynjolf’s eyes widen. Part of them is wholly satisfied by the light blush that settles on his face. When his hands rise to their face and caress their cheek, they lean into his touch. His forehead comes to rest on theirs and he exhales sharply, _“Talos_—Lassie—"

"You're worthy of the sky," _Sahkriimar_ whispers.

The look in his eyes changes. It's a strange swirl of different emotions, none they make sense of. Brynjolf's hands trace circles on their face. He draws back enough to stare them in the eyes. His eyes flicker down and he hesitates before one of his hands coaxes their head to turn upward. His other hand slides into their hair. "I'm not good with _words_—" Their eyes soften at the sight of the smallest, most serene smile on Brynjolf's lips. "I hope you don't mind, lassie—If I show you instead."

Someone pounds on the door. Both individuals freeze.

Not a second later, a tuft of platinum-blond hair peeks in the room. Zaammeytiid scarcely has enough time to climb to their feet when Vex’s eyes fall on the two and the woman calls back. “Kara! Kara, you have _no shit idea _what I just walked in on—Hey, Rune, c’mere—_Niruin! Sapphire! _One of you owes me money! Don’t fucking run—_Hey!_” Vex dips out of sight and footsteps ensue outside the chamber.

“What time is it?” They hold their head in their hands and turn away. Their head reels from dozens of different thoughts and feelings pulling their focus multiple directions.

The answer they get comes in the form of a grunt of uncertainty. Brynjolf stands but doesn’t look at them. Or, if he does, they don’t know because _they _can’t look him in the eye when the man states. "—We should continue this conversation later. Lassie—"

“I didn’t dream of an_ inn._" They state, answering his earlier question with a lie. They clench their eyes shut. Part of them feels mortified and they don't know why and it _aggravates _them. Their walls go back up; they fall into the comfort of detaching themself from the rest of the world. They keep their gaze to the side. "I'm sorry I tripped, _dii joor._"

The mood of the room is stale and silent by the time Vex returns to the door, opens it, and lets Kara inside. Zaammeytiid’s eyes widen at the sight of the woman. Something about her is different; something about her _reeks _of a kinship they aren’t used to. Kara grins to herself and gives both individuals a nod. “Glad you’re awake! Only been sleeping for, what? I counted eight hours?”

“Nine, technically.” Vex throws an arm around Kara’s shoulder and pulls her over. “_But_—I’m throwing theories around, now—What _if _they both woke up sooner but neither got up because they were _busy_—”

“I’m sorry, but I bet this time, so this actually is relevant to me,” Kara turns to Vex and pauses. “You know, I bet I could shout one of them into telling us the time they’ve been out of it. At least Brynjolf.”

“Yeah, but then you’ll get in _trouble_ and that’s a shit look for you. Full offense.” Vex snorts.

“Mullokah. Where is he?” Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow. They don’t care about _bets _or _wagers. _They need to check on the baby Dragonborn; he's a distraction but also a legitimate concern of theirs. They grit their teeth and peer at Kara. “Kara! Answer me, _niid dovahkiin—_”

“_Dii dovahkiin, mey Sahkriimar. Beyn, joor los neh vir dovahkiin._” Kara cuts off the person with a wave of her hand. She cocks a grin at Zaammeytiid’s blank stare. “What? Haven’t seen a Dragonborn before, Sahkriimar? I promise—It’s me.”

“I must—I am still sleeping, it is the only answer. _Beyn, _Sanguine! Where are you? End this nonsense!” Zaammeytiid hisses the words and begins to look around the room—notably its walls and ceiling—as if expecting the Daedra to pop out.

“What are you on about?” Kara raises both brows. “Listen, Sahkriimar, it’s me. I’m Dragonborn. I know this is a bit of news for all of us given Mul is also a Dragonborn—And so are you, kind of—But it is what it is. Don’t be a _mey._”

“Sanguine! _Et’Ada!” _Zaammeytiid shoves past all three individuals and into the corridor leading from bunk hall to primary guild cistern. They growl lowly. “_Beyn! _To think I am easily fooled? _No. _I am not a _mey, _Sanguine! Come out!”

“…Vex,” Kara inquires with a poke. She glances at Vex and nudges her toward Zaammeytiid. “What are they talking about? _Sanguine?_”

“I don’t know? The Dremora, maybe? The one you summoned to help Brynjolf?” Vex shrugs. “Which, for the record, was _terrifying?_”

“I can summon Daedra?” Kara’s words are equally stunned.

“How are you not aware of it, lass?” Brynjolf’s voice is directed at Kara but they know his gaze falls on them. They ignore him and continue to stalk the corridor.

_Maybe this isn’t a dream. This is all real. _Zaammeytiid’s hands fall to their sides. They look back and ignore three sets of eyes on them. _But how can Kara be a dovahkiin? She’s—She’s a Dremora! She’s not a consumer! …But technically, Mullokah isn’t, either. This isn’t like the past universe cycle. _

They vaguely recall something about Sanguine yelling at them over a tome in Kara’s possession. Perhaps not that specific phrasing, but they opt to run down the corridor to the bunk hall and leave the three thieves meandering by Brynjolf’s quarters. They don’t think much of the Nord as they track down Kara’s bunk and rip open her chest. Their hands shoot forward, and they rummage through the contents quickly. It takes time, but in the end they stand with a purple conjuration tome in hand. They hide it in a concealed pocket and scurry from one end of the cistern to the next in pursuit of the exit corridor. When they get out, they see the sky overhead is still light.

_“Lassie!”_ They pause at the sound of Brynjolf climbing up the ladder behind them. They have the opportunity to shut the secret entrance’s coffin in his face, but they hold back.

He’s wearing his ugly stall vendor clothes. Zaammeytiid frowns. “Out of with it, _joor_.”

“You said,” Brynjolf points a finger. He grits his teeth; he's worn from the events of the past day and sprinting to the ladder. “—You didn’t want to be alone.”

“…I don’t.” They glance at a guard walking nearby.

“Then don’t be, eh?” the man offers a smile. It's friendly and warm, just like the one he wore when they first met. Their stomach twists with fire when he steps to them and looks down at their face. “Let’s go find the little lad and Mr. Clucky.”

They meet his gaze. Their eyes soften. Their walls have returned, but the thief's found a way to scale the bricks. Zaammeytiid exhales and gestures for Brynjolf to follow as they start the trek across town to Mul’s inn. “_Mey, _Brynjolf. Don’t fall behind.”

“You doubt me, lassie?” Brynjolf jests as he trails after them.

Zaammeytiid simply shakes their head. They almost miss Brynjolf’s cheeky grin as they answer him, “Clucky is a lass, not a lad. Even a _dov _knows that.”


	20. i have not adopted the boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a relaxing time as kara the dragonborn catches up with her guild mates, until mercer makes an announcement.

She pulls the bow from her back and kneels to gather spare arrows from the floor. Practicing archery isn’t a necessary now, but the woman intends to stay on top of her game with the bow.

Since Kara absorbed the dragon soul, things have not changed much. It’s been two weeks since the event that brought her so much internal peace. Every little ping of bitterness she ever felt over _not _being Dragonborn—Gone. Every fear, every ounce of resentment—Dissipated. She feels like things have finally become _right _in the world; Dragonborn is the role she is meant to play, the star she is meant to shine as, and she is free as the sky is blue and the clouds drift overhead. It is almost winter now, with nigh-all of Skyrim falling under a light blanket of cold gales. The colorful tree leaves are gone. She is content with the world. She is happy. She enjoys her jobs as a member of the Thieves Guild and, perhaps more importantly, she is accepting of how the fates and foils of the world have spun her story. Not even the Prince of Madness can rip her gratitude from her for what she has in life.

But she still practices archery—Just in case.

She finds a few things catch her eye in present time, beyond the white-haired vixen often seen rallying at her side. A few things are spectacularly bizarre, like Sahkriimar _reading _spell tomes and studying schools of magicka. Kara doesn’t understand why the _dov _person has a sudden interest in _joor _magic, but she finds it fun to occasionally sneak up and surprise Sahkriimar. The look on their face whenever Kara interrupts them is wholly worth every long rant of _dov _profanity that only she understands.

She notes that Mercer Frey falls quiet on the Karliah matter. She’s grateful; it appears the guild has a little more time before things begin to escalate to _that _part of the Thieves Guild storyline. Kara still doesn’t know who is trustworthy and who is a traitor. She extends Mercer Frey the benefit of the doubt; aside from being a massive prick, she doesn’t see anything wrong with his behavior. Nothing _suspicious _warrants her investigation, but she retains her distaste of the man—though he _is _a capable guild master.

Kara spies other, smaller things among the guild members that she can’t help making note of. Things like Vipir the Fleet’s increasing snores whenever the man has time to rest, or Niruin’s avid practice of restoration magic. She feels partially responsible for the latter; she knows the incident with Brynjolf months back left its mark on _many _guild members in how blatantly it reminded them of their own mortality. Likewise, Kara catches Vex practicing the basic restoration spells on more than one occasion; she makes sure not to judge the hotheaded woman for practicing it.

“It’s good to be prepared. I should do the same, honestly,” Kara remarks offhandedly one such day.

_Vex. _Just the name alone makes her do a double-take most days. Her days are nearly in sync with the infiltrator. Kara enjoys every moment of it; the two have grown close, spurred by a mutual distaste of objectification and a need to prove themselves to the men in their guild. Kara cherishes every laugh she earns from the Imperial thief. She likes—hopes—that Vex thinks the same; Kara’s feelings are kept under lock-and-key but she wants the other woman to find a way to pickpocket them open. She remains hesitant in approaching it first-hand. Her friendship with Vex is something she cares for deeply; Kara’s heart aches at the thought of overstepping boundaries or pushing too much after both ladies have worked so hard to get where they are now.

She knows she isn’t the only one dealing with the bane that is _feelings_. Rune takes her aside one evening at the Ragged Flagon and grimaces when the two sit at the tavern’s bar. “How in Oblivion do you deal with unwarranted affection?”

The question makes her stop and raise a brow. She tilts her head to one side and shoves five gold pieces at Vekel to get her colleague a drink. “Is it on the receiving or giving end?”

“Giving?” Rune’s hands turn and play with the white stone he holds precious. He sighs. “It’s Vipir, okay? I saw him _shirtless_—”

“Ah, little Rune likes the lads? Figures,” Brynjolf interjects and sits next to the duo on Kara’s right. He nods at Vekel and the barkeeper pours him a glass of mead after handing Rune one tall mug of wine. “I thought I’ve seen you sneakin’ glances when Delvin’s changed in front of us. Or was that Dirge?”

“Both,” Karae elbows Rune and grins wholeheartedly. She chuckles at his scowl. “Can you blame me, Rune? After all the times you’ve cheated in poker—”

“It was only _two _times—”

“Lad cheats in cards? Talos _help_ you if Sapphire finds out.” Brynjolf sips his drink.

“She won’t, she won’t, I know what I’m doing. Relax. You two are terrible with advice—I wasn't even asking you, Brynjolf!” Rune turns his body away from Kara and the Nord. “Kara, if you have nothing to say I’ll leave.”

“What is there to add? You’re a grown-man with feelings. Go express them, offer to buy Vipir a beer, see if it’s the same or if you’re outta luck.” Kara shrugs. “Sometimes you have to be straightforward.”

“It’s the way to do it, lad,” Brynjolf agrees with a soft whistle.

“I don’t see you two being straightforward.” Rune grimaces.

Kara pauses. “Brynjolf and I are not involved with each other that way, though he did proposition me for sex once.”

“I was _not_ trying to seduce you!” The Nord snorts.

Her smile is wicked. “Uh-huh. Sure. So glad Vex was there to save me before _all_ our clothes came off.”

Not a _word _of it is true but the stare Rune and Vekel give her is utterly worth any heckling Brynjolf dishes out later. She pats the latter’s arm fondly and turns back to Rune.

“It isn’t that easy! You have to go up and speak to someone you got _feelings_ for.” Rune props himself up with an elbow on the bar counter. His eyes drift to the side and he gazes out across the smelly cistern, contemplative. “I’ve _tried, _Kara. But once you're lost in someones eyes, it all goes downhill from there. You forget how talking works? I didn’t know it was _possible '_til I made a fool outta myself in front of Niruin and him.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding the training room, Rune? So Niruin doesn’t tease you?” Kara holds her head in her hands and sighs. “I have to listen to that charming bosmer for _hours _because you can’t take a joke!”

“I think you like it, personally.” Rune retorts without pause.

“If you imply I’ve developed a crush on Niruin I _can _and _will _throw you into the cistern. Then laugh. Then help you out, but only after the laughing bit,” Kara gently shoves him. Rune huffs, but she doubles down on the threat. “You think I can’t lift you?”

“No, no—I just find it funny,” Rune’s crooked smile emerges and he straightens upright. The man takes a long swig of his wine and exhales. “—Sometimes you act really confident, Kara. But the _entire guild_ knows you’re pining for Vex.”

Kara’s eyes narrow. “Hey—Don’t bring Vex into this.”

“It’s true; I’ve seen it.” Brynjolf’s comment doesn’t help.

“Speaking of things you’ve seen, _Brynjolf,”_ Rune continues with a wave of his hand. His dark brown hair is an utter mess and badly in need of a comb. “Since you’re so _honest_—Maybe you oughta tell us _inexperienced ruffians _how the Dragonborn wooing is going.”

“Lips are sealed, lad, sorry.” The man pretends to lock his mouth and mimes throwing an imaginary key over shoulder. But Kara is smart; she knows the soft twinkle in Brynjolf’s eyes. Whatever he’s doing, it hasn’t done him wrong yet.

“Honestly, I’d be surprised if you get so much as a _hello _in greeting with how much they’ve been buried in that spell tome. I’ve known them a while, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen them take an interest in anything but destruction magic.” Kara taps her chin. “I don’t know where they got the book, either.”

“Came from your chest, I remember seeing you read it in the past.” Rune cocks an eyebrow at her. “It’s to summon a Dremora.”

“I don’t remember learning that.” Kara huffs. “But you’re starting to sound like Sahkriimar. If I try so much as to talk to them they go off on tangents about _Sanguine_. I don’t get it.”

“Lass—” Brynjolf’s voice is unusually cautious as he glances at her. She frowns and eyes him until he spills the beans. “—If you really can’t remember—Perhaps you ought to consider whether your head’s on straight. This entire guild can testify to you conjuring a Daedra before. If you ain’t remembering—That’s bad.”

“Wow, didn’t think the second head had any good talking points. You’ve proven me wrong. Congrats,” Rune lets out a loud burp. He shakes his head, downs the rest of his wine, and shoves the empty cup back at Vekel. “I’m getting a bath.”

“Good, you need it.” Kara huffs and waves the Imperial thief off. She turns to Brynjolf and finds him staring at her. "What?"

“I’m serious, Kara. You not remembering—Don’t brush it off, lass.” Brynjolf stands and shoves a small stack of coins at Vekel; the barkeep takes the coins without a word and refills the Nord’s drink.

“I don’t brush things off.” Kara crosses her arms and stares at him.

“You do with Vex,” Brynjolf sips his drink.

Her brows furrow. “Oh, yeah, like you and Sahkriimar are any different?”

“I’m waiting for the right moment.” He frowns and looks at his drink. He takes a sip, shrugs, and continues drinking it for a time. When he’s satiated, he puts the empty glass on the bar counter and exhales sharply. Brynjolf’s voice is soft. “…You have to be patient with them. They aren’t like the folks at Helga’s Bunkhouse. I don’t want them to feel rushed, lass. Pressured. I want it to happen naturally, like in one of those books.”

“I didn't take you for a reader, Brynjolf, but it sounds nice." Kara’s gaze softens. “Y’know, I doubt Vex is ever gonna apologize—But I’m sorry if the two of us interrupted something. You know the day I’m talking about?”

“Mm. You did.”

“Did we really?” Kara’s eyes widen. She throws her hands in the air. “Zeus—_I am so sorry!”_

“I don't hold it against you, lass. Couldn't have known. Wasn't quite expecting it myself,” Brynjolf shakes his head. His voice has an air of humor as he adds, “Right now, they go back-and-forth between avoiding me and going out of their way to run into me. You’d be impressed, lass. Their excuses for showin’ up at my stall oughta be a book on its own.”

“How’s Mullokah doing? I haven’t heard of him in a while.” Kara parts her lips. Part of her wants to inquire if he’s seen any weird notes lying around Sahkriimar lately, particularly one with a bloody _handprint_, but she refrains. No point worrying the Nord more.

“Little lad’s a medium-sized lad.” Brynjolf’s grin is proud. “Grown an entire _inch._”

“The tiny terror’s getting tall. Wow. Early growth spurt.” Kara smiles broadly. “Clucky still hanging around?”

“The feathery lass? Oh, _yeah, _lass, like a Dark Chicken could die easily. Little lad would pout for days if he heard you imply such a thing.” The Nord’s laughter is lively and humorous. “He’s a good kid. Checks in with his friends at Honorhall a lot. Heard Constance Michel’s made a far better headmistress than Grelod ever did. Can’t say I’m surprised, eh?” Brynjolf winks and nods.

“Has he not gone back yet? Is Sahkriimar just… _keeping _him?” The thought makes Kara pause. She leans against the bar counter. “…I’m not sure how I feel about them being the parent of a growing _joor_.”

“Sibling, not parent.”

“They’re _thirty_ or something, and he’s what? Ten? That sounds like a prime ragtag family in the making, Brynjolf. And if I’m honest,” she glances at the Nord from the corner of her eyes. “—You seem to have adopted Mul, too.”

“Lass—I have _not_ adopted the boy.” Brynjolf’s incredulous stare makes her snort.

“Really?” Kara leans over to the Nord and eyes him. “Who pays for damages if Mul breaks something?”

“He’s a kid, I’m not having him or lassie worry ‘bout money.”

“Or check in on Mul when Sahkriimar goes out of town on a job?”

“A child that age can’t be left by himself so long. At least not his chicken,” Brynjolf’s brows furrow.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Kara invests in the topic. She throws the idea out into the open. “If Sahkriimar came to you and _begged_ you to help them parent Mul, would you?”

The Nord huffs. “Lass, I’m not a _father_—”

“But you _could_ be,” Kara stands and makes after him when Brynjolf begins the trek to the puzzle door separating the tavern from the guild cistern. She huffs and keeps a steady pace alongside the ginger-haired man. “Think about it! You, Sahkriimar, Mullokah—You could buy the empty home in Riften, have your own place, plenty of room for Clucky and Mullokah to play and you and Sahkriimar to have fun doing _other_ things.”

“The two people I was looking for." The voice is from none other than the two’s guild master; Mercer looks fit and prepared, unusually serious, and beaming with a confidence that irritates Kara to no end. It dawns on her that Vex, Rune, and Niruin are all present in the main cistern. Mercer waves the two over as they stride into the cistern. "New Dragonborn, second head. Where’ve you been?”

“Got myself a drink, Mercer. What is this about?” Brynjolf quirks an eyebrow.

“Well, Brynjolf. It so happens your guild master's located _Karliah_.” Mercer's statement changes Brynjolf’s demeanor completely. The Nord stiffens and stares with dark eyes at the guild master; Mercer grunts and waves Brynjolf over while Kara stops next to Vex. “This is both a bit sudden _and _later than I hoped, but word just got in from our contact up in Winterhold. It appears Thrynn’s death wasn’t such a _coincidence _after all. Not even dragons could startle the man.”

“Karliah’s behind his death?” Kara’s brows furrow. She doesn’t mean to speak so loudly but all eyes turn to hear and she winces. “Is that what you mean?”

“The easy way of putting it. Karliah’s been building her influence across northern Skyrim. I thought she was skimming cuts coming into Riften, but the book Brynjolf recovered points to a pattern I didn’t consider. She’s taking cuts from imports traveling north of Skyrim,” Mercer growls the words. He crosses his arms and sighs. “It’s clever, but too obvious once we got the logs. All the shipments targeted pass the coast of Winterhold. I don't doubt she's been building a following of her own up there. Woman was always good at making new contacts.”

“How are we handling Karliah?” Brynjolf’s arms drop to his side. His eyes narrow. “Winterhold’s dangerous the later we get into the year, Mercer.”

“Which is why I’m not sending a single person to apprehend her. Karliah needs to be captured alive to face retribution for Gallus’ death.” Mercer’s statement gives Kara reason to pause. She stares at the guild master while Brynjolf falls silent. Mercer eyes the latter and huffs. “Brynjolf—_Brynjolf_. I know you don’t agree with this—”

“She killed the closest we ever had to a _father_, Mercer! _Our _father!” Brynjolf snaps. His eyes reflect an old, bitter rage that’s built over the past two decades.

“—If you can’t control your temper, I’m not sending you.” Mercer grits his teeth. His fists clench. “I know you want her dead—_Talos, _I know I want her dead too. But it’s not the way of the Thieves Guild. We aren’t the Dark Brotherhood.” The man averts his gaze. He sounds full of resolve at the words, but Kara still doesn’t want to trust him.

“Who’s going?” Vex interrupts the group. Her eyes narrow on Mercer. “How many?”

“Five, unless Brynjolf here thinks he’ll be a liability,” The guild master snaps. “Current roster is the folks you see in front of you, save me. I called you here for a reason: Vex, Niruin, Rune, Kara, Brynjolf.”

“Why aren’t you going?” Kara raises a brow. _If he’s guilty... wouldn't he be worried about Karliah trying to convince us of the truth? Wouldn't he go kill her himself? Does that mean he's not guilty?  
_

“I don’t trust my temper to stay in check. This is _serious_. Karliah’s a deadly adversary and she’s got decades of combat experience behind her. If you can’t handle your emotions then don’t bother.” Mercer turns his gaze back to Brynjolf. “Can you handle it, Brynjolf?”

“…Aye,” The Nord states faintly. His body is tense, but he holds his tongue on all other thoughts.

“Good. You five are going north starting tomorrow. Get your shit prepared. The faster we do this, the faster we can reap in our profits again. I’ll inform the other guild members in the morning,” Mercer dismisses them all with a wave, but Kara strides past the group and follows the guild master back to his quarters. Though she makes no attempts to hide her steps, Mercer doesn’t acknowledge her presence until he’s opening the door to his bedchamber. He looks over his shoulder and snaps, “What is it?”

“Why am I going, sir?” Kara squints.

Mercer steps out of his room and snorts. He crosses his arms. “You’re Dragonborn. There’s dragons in Winterhold. Simple enough for you?”

_Even if you aren’t a traitor—You’re a damn dick. _Kara thinks.

She grits her teeth. “_Sahkriimar _is a far more useful Dragonborn. I barely know any shouts.”

“You have a head on your shoulders and they don’t.” The reply is flat.

“If we fought one-on-one using only shouts then they would beat me! Every time! They’re _way _better at using their thu’um, sir,” the woman pinches the bridge of her nose and grimaces. “I mean… I’m not saying no to going. I’m just pointing out I’m the worse choice.”

“I don’t see it that way,” Mercer’s stare is intense. He huffs. “You know how to sneak, use a bow, not lose your temper, and you can shout. Sounds like a well-rounded package, Kara. You’ve remained in the guild all this time for the things you do _well_, not because you’re the friend of a Dragonborn.”

“…That’s surprisingly nice of you,” the woman stares in slight disbelief. “…I wasn’t aware you could be nice, sir.”

“I recognize talent and hard work. If you _excuse me,_” Mercer’s tone is far from gentle when he shoves his door open and slips inside his quarters. “Be ready to leave at dawn tomorrow. There’ll be horses waiting to take you north. Try not to lose them.” The door _slams_ shut.

She decides to seek out Vex. To her surprise, the white-haired Imperial is busy bothering her former _dov _over something. It isn’t until Kara gets close to where Sahkriimar sits at a table and Vex hovers nearby that Kara’s eyes land on something shiny and sleek around her former _dov_’s neck. Her eyes bulge and she clamps a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter. The necklace is none other than a copper hued metal elegantly pressed into small pendants hung on thin string. It goes around Sahkriimar’s neck; in the middle of the central pendant, where celtic knot-like designs repeat in an elegant display of lines, is a _beautiful _pale white stone.

Kara’s grateful Vex serves as a wall between their former _dov _and herself, because the woman can scarcely contain the laughter that bubbles up inside her when she realizes _what _her former _dov _wears: an amulet of Mara.

She takes a seat across Sahkriimar at the table and smiles faintly. “Hey, Sahkriimar?”

“Reading,” the _dov _person grunts in response.

“Where did you get that necklace?” Kara keeps her tone light and innocent. “It looks nice.”

“Mul said he talked to the priests at the Divines temple—”

“The Temple of Mara?” Vex grins ear-to-ear.

Sahkriimar turns the page in their conjuration spell tome. They don’t look up. “Maybe? I don’t pay attention to _joorre et’Ada. _Mul spoke to the priests. They gave him it. Tiny _dovahkiin _gave it to me. I like it. End of story.”

“It fits you—_That stone._ Looks nice.” Vex pats the shorter individual on the shoulder and snorts when Sahkriimar hisses. She straightens up and shrugs. “Well, I’m gonna get packing for the morning. I hate dawn starts.”

“Have fun.” Another page turn.

Kara smiles to herself. “You should show Brynjolf. I bet he’s never seen that before. Not on you.”

“…Perhaps I will show him later. The _joor _is everywhere.” Sahkriimar’s eyes dim. They look up. “But right now I am _studying, dii dovahkiin, _I must master this spell. I will see him another _tiid. _Time.”

“Suit yourself,” Kara shrugs and moves on while Vex lingers to talk to the _dov _person, contradicting the Imperial woman’s previous claim to go _pack_. She feels an air of curiosity that only increases when Sahkriimar slams the book shut behind her and breaks out in _wild_ laughter. Whatever it is, she’ll press, prod, and poke Vex for answers when they start to Winterhold the following day. She has a lot to pack on the hunt for Karliah.


	21. a very short trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zaammeytiid apologizes to mullokah, but things aren't turning out the way they want it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all  
thank u for reading  
really happy w how this chapter turned out  
^_^  
side note: we didnt explain this very well but sheogorath's "madness" is defined one of two ways in this story:  
1\. magically compelled to act ways you wouldnt normally (specific to each individual/plane)  
2\. self sabotage

The next time they see Mul, he’s got a shaved head and a wide, beaming grin on his face.

He’s at the same inn room he’s been at since he first arrived at Riften; in spite of Zaammeytiid’s membership to the Thieves Guild, the innkeeper has a soft spot for Mullokah and overlooks his caretaker’s allegiances to keep the boy fed and sheltered. Clucky the chicken is flopped on a small, crudely-constructed bed of hay. The chicken dozes even when Zaammeytiid knocks on the door and pushes it open. They catch Mullokah’s gaze and the bright, eccentric smile the boy carries everywhere shines on his face. _“Sahkriimar!”_

Zaammeytiid stiffens when Mullokah leaps up and bolts to hug them. They hesitantly wrap their arms around the child. “You’re tall.”

“I’m standing on my tiptoes!” Mul’s voice is muffled against their leather uniform.

They hear Brynjolf chuckle behind them. Zaammeytiid gently pats the kid’s head and tilts their own head to one side as they look him up and down. “You’ve been kept warm, tiny _dovahkiin? _Fed? The _joorre _take care of you?”

“They did! Everyone here’s really nice to me, Sahkriimar! Sometimes the innkeeper asks me to keep it down, but I don’t really think they’re that bothered by me practicing my thu’um!” The word _thu’um _is spoken with vigor as Mul steps back and holds a fist to his chest. “I’m going to grow up and be the mightiest _dovahkiin _to ever live! Even stronger than you!”

“_Pahlok, _thinking you can beat me. You are tiny,” They shake their head. “A small _dovahkiin_ is a _dovahkiin _with much to learn.”

“Then you’ll have to teach me! You will, won’t you? You’ll come by? You’ll come back?” The boy’s fists clench and he frowns. “I really appreciate all Mister Brynjolf does around here, but—”

“Does around here?” Zaammeytiid snaps their head to look back at Brynjolf. The Nord’s eyes are already on them. His smile dips into a grin and he waves. They return their focus to Mullokah and frown. “Does the _joor _take good care of you?”

“He brings me candy, and Clucky lots of sweet corn, and sometimes he’ll have these stories that I _think _are made up but they’re really funny to listen to so—” Mullokah rattles off a long list of things Brynjolf’s involved in. Zaammeytiid falls quiet and waits for the child to be done. By the time Mullokah finishes, the youth is out of breath. “—And he took me to the Temple—When Grelod hurt me! When you killed her.”

The _dov _person stiffens. Part of them had hoped to avoid the topic, but a hope is only that: wistful thinking. They take a breath. “…I’m glad he did.”

“I got a lot of cool scars now.” Mul pauses and plops on his cot. He frowns. “Did… Did you get scars from that night? Sahkriimar?”

“Not physical ones.” They avert their gaze. “Mullokah—”

“I’m really sorry if I said mean things and it hurt you and made you so sad you didn’t want to come here and say hi to me and Clucky,” the boy’s voice drops to a low tone and his shoulders slump. He looks at his feet. “Please don’t stay mad.”

“Mad? I’m not—No, no, _no, _Mullokah, I’m not _rahgot _with you, far from it.” Zaammeytiid doesn’t know what to do besides stand and speak. Their entire body is tense. “You have done nothing wrong, tiny _dovahkiin_. This is not your fault—”

“What does _rahgot _mean again?” Mul pauses and looks up.

They smile faintly, a brief curl of their lips before it departs. “Anger. I am not angry with you, Mullokah,” and, hesitantly, with perhaps too much influence from their _joor slen_ and _joor _emotions, they stride to the bedside and kneel next to it to look at the boy. Zaammeytiid points at themself. “Mullokah. Hear these words, _dovahkiin_: you are not at fault for this. The blame lays solely on me, my _zii_. Soul—"

It crushes them to see the young boy’s eyes water when he stares at them.

“—I lied to you,” they state quietly. “I should not have done that. It was wrong. It was _pahlok _of me to do so. I am a _pahlok dov, _worthy of scorn. _Beyn. _I’m sorry, tiny _dovahkiin_. I won’t lie to you again.”

“Promise?” Mullokah asks in a whisper.

Zaammeytiid’s eyes soften. They unsheathe an ebony blade from their waist and hold it up. Mullokah’s eyes grow big and he stares as Zaammeytiid pulls off a glove from their left hand. They can feel two sets of eyes on them; they do not need to hear Brynjolf to know he is there and watching. “I will tell you _vahzen_ now, little _dovahkiin_. I was once a Listener for the Dark Brotherhood. The Night Mother gave me my other name. Phantom-Kill-Allegiance. _Sah-Krii-Mir_. In the Dark Brotherhood—Covenants and vows are born in blood, forged in _laas_’ rich red.”

They inhale deeply. They recall, once, in a universe before the present, how Astrid apologized to Kara by swearing a blood vow; it was the only way to prove her words had actions backing them up. Zaammeytiid sees the current situation no different.

They hear Mullokah gasp and Brynjolf exhale sharply when they slice their left palm open. The beautiful ebony dagger they hold drips with their own blood. Zaammeytiid ignores the sting of pain and shuts their eyes. “I promise you, Mullokah. Tiny _dovahkiin. _As long as I live, I will not lie to you. This is a vow of _laas. _To break it is to invoke the wrath of Sithis.”

They flinch and snap their eyes open when Mullokah leaps forward and wraps arms around their neck. Their body freezes from sudden contact.

“I forgive you,” the boy mumbles against them. Mullokah draws back and sniffles. “So tell Sithis not to invoke his wrath, okay? I want to have you as family.”

Zaammeytiid’s smile returns. They feel privileged to see and know and rear such a young _dovahkiin_. Very few _dov _ever get to see their kin’s youth. They stand up and wrap their bleeding palm in rags while Mullokah spies Brynjolf and runs to tell him how happy he is they all get to be a great, big _family_.

But they are a liar. Their smile cannot last. Though they are grateful to reconnect with Mul, and they are relieved that the strange sibling-like bond between the two is not broken, they cannot stand to be near _Brynjolf. _Though they initially try to, what with having him tag along the first two days while they take Mullokah to the docks, the markets, and to visit his friends at Honorhall Orphanage, they find their thoughts constantly turn to the little white lie they told him in his quarters recently. It is a simple lie to save both their faces, but it is a lie all the same; they know he asks only honesty from them and they know they have failed in that regard once more.

Things become easier once they ask Brynjolf to stop following them around. He’s still at his stalls most days, and they can’t avoid him in the cistern, but the two’s contact falls and they _do not _find excuses to say hello. They only point out the obvious or speak amicably as necessary, and never alone, because alone is too _much _with the guilt on their shoulders.

They study the tome of _Summon Dremora _extensively. It’s the only way they can contact Sanguine again; they have no further dreams that impose the drunken bastard on their mind. Though they’ve dabbled in destruction magic in the past, they have no experience conjuring _shit _and they find studying the tome to be both frustrating and a nuisance. Six days after they woke up in Brynjolf’s room, they find Mullokah approaches them with an odd request.

“Will you wear this?” The boy’s bouncing back and forth on his heels. Clucky clucks on the ground behind him.

Zaammeytiid’s brows rise. They sit in a chair the innkeeper _kindly _allowed them to take from the ground floor to the room. The tome of _Summon Dremora _is plopped open in their lap. “…What is that?”

“It’s a necklace, Sahkriimar,” the child grins. “I’ve been going to the temple when I’m bored. The priests and priestesses there are _really_ nice. They let me read scriptures and teach me restoration magic! One of them is named Maramel. He was talking about Mara yesterday. I don’t really think I agree with Mara’s beliefs because she is all about _peace _and _living _and being nice to people. But he gave me this anyways as thanks for helping collect tithe. Will you wear it?”

“Why don’t you wear it? Tiny _dovahkiin_, will the _joor _not be mad you gave away this…” Zaammeytiid grimaces. It looks hideous; the metal pendant has a stone off-center in it and the design is too _joor _to care for. “…Beloved gift?”

“I don’t want to lug it around! Clucky doesn’t, either. I think it’ll look better on you. The stone kind of matches your eyes?” Mullokah shoves the jewelry at them.

If only to spare his feelings, they take it and put the damn thing on, but keep it beneath their armor and out of sight the best they can.

Their aversion to Brynjolf warps into a sporadic mish-mash of complicated _joor _feelings and stubborn _dov _pride as days pass. They can’t let go of what they saw in his dream, much less let go of the _mortified _face he made when he caught them watching. They know it is a massive violation of privacy. They knew Sanguine could conjure up a _lot_, but to look at something so explicitly personal and vulnerable as a dream, one which Brynjolf was deeply enthusiastic about, and then lie about seeing it—They want to vomit. The nausea at their own actions rises in their stomach again, again, again. Just _looking _at the ginger-haired man is enough to make their stomach flip. But they are a coward; they run and hide instead of confessing to the man and telling him the truth.

When Brynjolf goes to the stalls over the week, they sit in the cistern and read _Summon Dremora _for several hours. When he’s climbing down the ladder to the cistern, they are already on their way out of the Ratway. And when they see him—and they don’t know how he keeps bumping into them because it doesn’t seem _intentional_—they keep their head low and their gaze somewhere else.

On a day they know the Nord is busy in the plaza of Riften, conning and scheming and selling nonsense to folks traveling through the lakeside town, they find a secluded spot at a table in the bunk hall to sit and read. The blissful silence lasts only so long, because a white-haired Imperial asshole comes barreling to them and plops in the seat _directly _next to where they sit. Though Vex doesn’t say anything at first, the woman grins wickedly and snatches a hand at their collar when they’re busy flipping to a new chapter of their spell tome.

“_By the Nine Divines,_” Vex’s grin is off-the-charts in potential for hysteria. Her hands pull Zaammeytiid’s Amulet of Mara from its hiding place as the _dov _person hisses and smacks Vex away.

“_Do not touch me, joor,_” Zaammeytiid growls.

“What? I’m just admiring it! For fuck’s sake, why you wearing it under your clothes?” Vex snaps the question. “It’s an _Amulet of Mara!” _

When Kara sits across the table, Zaammeytiid’s hair stands up on end. Their eyes narrow. They turn their attention back to their book.

“Hey, Sahkriimar?” Kara’s voice reveals the amusement the woman’s face hides.

They grimace internally. _“Reading.”_

“Where did you get that necklace?” The other Dragonborn continues with a tone too innocent for anyone in a six-mile radius to believe. “It looks nice.”

Their eyes focus on the spell tome, but when neither of the woman leave—aren’t they all adults?—Zaammeytiid grimaces. “Mul said he talked to the priests at the Divines temple—”

“The Temple of _Mara?” _Vex’s smile holds laughter begging to come undone.

They refuse to fall for the bait. They don’t know why the duo are so thoroughly obsessed with ugly metal on a string, but they aren’t having the conversation. They turn the page in their tome and resist the urge to _gol hah _one of the two out a cistern. “Maybe?” They barely remember Vex’s question, or if the Imperial thief even spoke a question. “I don’t pay attention to _joorre et’Ada. _Mul spoke to the priests. They gave him it. Tiny _dovahkiin _gave it to me. I like it. End of story.”

Like Oblivion they would ever tell either of the two they dislike Mul’s ‘gift.’

“It fits you—That stone,” Vex’s pat on their shoulder makes Zaammeytiid hiss. The woman snorts. She stands and declares. “Well, I’m gonna get packing for the morning. I hate dawn starts.”

_Dawn starts? _Zaammeytiid raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it. “Have fun.”

Another turn of their tome. At this point they don’t read the pages, they simply stare at the illustrations and try to make sense of the _joor _calligraphy.

Across them, Kara smiles. “You should show Brynjolf. I bet he’s never seen _that_ before. Not on you.”

_Are all joorres in Tamriel obsessed with this necklace? _Zaammeytiid wants to scream but holds in the urge. They look up at Kara and ignore the impish grin on the latter’s face; they state simply, “Perhaps I will show him later. The _joor _is everywhere. But right _now _I am studying, _dii dovahkiin_. I must master this spell. I will see him another _tiid. _Time.”

Kara rises to her feet and huffs. “Suit yourself.”

Though the other Dragonborn departs, Zaammeytiid stares in annoyance at the first woman: the white-haired Imperial asshole. Vex crosses her arms and stares at the _dov _person with narrowed eyes. “You’re close with Kara?”

_“Reading.”_ They look at their tome. 

“For fuck’s sake,” the Imperial bitch grits her teeth and speaks quietly. “Just answer a question for me, okay? Then I’ll _go_. I just need to know if—If you—If you know who Kara’s been…” As Vex trails off, her cheeks dust pink. “Been _crushing _on?”

Zaammeytiid pauses to register the words. A wicked grin falls on their face and they break out in laughter at the realization. “You—_Kara—”_

“Shush! _Oblivion,_ it’s a yes or no question!” Vex spits each word.

The _dov _person shakes their head. They shut their book and glare at the Imperial lady. “I know _shit_. Shoo, _joor._”

In the early evening hours of the same day, they check in on Mul and Clucky. The latter is a chicken, as per the usual, but Mul seems somewhat meek when the trio go on a walk by Riften’s docks. The lake laps the shore gently in the background. Zaammeytiid lets their hood down and crosses their arms while Mul rattles off a spiel of how excited he is the snow has begun to fall more recently. He finishes the tangent with a solemn nod. “—It reminds me of Windhelm. Windhelm’s technically home, you know? Hey, Sahkriimar?”

The _dov _person peers down at them. “Yes? Tiny _dovahkiin?_”

“What’s your home?” Mul frowns.

“I do not have a home, tiny _dovahkiin, _I am sworn to the service of a Daedric Prince. Lord Sheogorath, the Prince of Madness. He is a dangerous _et’Ada,_” Zaammeytiid exhales at the thought and shivers. “—Do not sell your soul to _et’Ada, _tiny _dovahkiin. _They will tempt you and trick you and offer you the world. You must always say no. Do not give them the power of a _dov_ soul.”

“Can you have a temporary home? With me, and Clucky, and Brynjolf?” Mul’s eyes brighten at the prospect. “I really like Brynjolf. He’s nice and he gives me candy and knives.”

“He does what?” Zaammeytiid flinches. “_Knives?_”

“He says to only use them for self-defense, and that I can’t have big knives until I get at least four more inches tall,” Mul messes with his robes and reveals two unenchanted iron daggers. He holds them up proudly. “Brynjolf promised to teach me how to use them properly if I don’t stab innocent _joor_. I told him I’d ask you first, but—”

They stiffen. “I’m not your parent, tiny _dovahkiin_—You don’t need my approval.”

The words trigger a visceral reaction in Mul. He winces and looks away. His hands tense as he fumbles with concealed pockets and clumsily puts the iron daggers away for another time. He looks at the ground where Clucky stands and exhales. “About that… Um. I’ve had some days to think. Lots of days, really, ever since we left Windhelm. I was hoping… I want you to adopt me. Not as a sibling. As an actual kid. I know you won’t be my mom or dad. But I was thinking I could call you my _parent,”_ he swallows and rocks back and forth on his heels. “I even—I asked Brynjolf! He thought it was a good idea! He thinks all my ideas are good, but this one I think he said was _really _good.”

“That I did, little lad.” The voice makes Zaammeytiid’s hair stand on end. When they at the end of the walkway, they see the ginger-haired man approach with a calm smile and twinkle in his eyes. His gaze is directed at Mullokah. “They say yes yet?”

“No—” Mul squawks.

“Oh, lassie,” Brynjolf whistles sharply in disapproval. He crosses his arms—it mirrors their own body language, ironically—and peers at them. “You got to give the kid an answer. Can’t keep him waiting forever. It’s getting late.”

The sky is dark; the sun goes down early in winter evenings. A flourish of stars hangs overhead.

“Mullokah, I cannot be the parent you want.” Zaammeytiid’s arms drop to their side. Their eyes dim. “No lies, remember? Tiny _dovahkiin_—even if we come from the same sky, I am not… good. I am _pahlok, _arrogant. _Rahgot, _angry. I carry much _krosis, _sorrow. In my care you will _aus, _suffer. Do not forget what the two-piece suited man told you. He did not lie.” Each words stabs their gut, but they refuse to be dishonest with the tiny _dovahkiin_. They look at Mul while he stares at them in disbelief. When Mul’s eyes water, they break the gaze out of remorse for having hurt him. But they know. Mullokah deserves the world, and an actual, real family. They are the farthest thing from it.

“…Okay, Sahkriimar. Sorry I asked,” Mullokah picks up Clucky and holds the chicken to his chest as he turns and starts to walk away. When Zaammeytiid doesn’t run after him, Brynjolf jogs to catch up with the kid. They can’t make out what he says, but he accompanies the child back to what they can only assume is the inn.

In retrospect, it is about the time Mul would prepare for bed, anyways. Brynjolf seems aware of a _bedtime_. They are thankful for his presence at Mul’s side; the man, if he ever has kids, will make a reliable parent.

_Why didn’t you ask him, Mullokah? He treats you like you are already flesh and blood. _Zaammeytiid exhales sharply. They decide to walk the opposite way. They don’t know where they are headed, but they want to go someplace far away. They wind up on a lonely pier at the end of Riften’s rocks, where the boats are moored for the evening and the dock workers have all gone home. Zaammeytiid sits off the edge and lets their hands fall in their lap. Their silver eyes gaze out across the waters. Occasionally, a fish kisses the surface and swallows an insect before swimming back into the depths of the darkness. A chilly gale rinses their form and they glance down at the Amulet of Mara hanging off their neck. _Was that your way of trying to tell me your thoughts, Mullokah? To ask me to formally recognize you as family, tiny dovahkiin? _

They grit their teeth. They tear the amulet from their neck and stand to throw it into the waters, but it remains clutched in one tense palm. They feel their eyes water and the Amulet of Mara falls from their grasp unto the wooden dock with a soft _thud_. They can’t do it. Throwing away the boys gift would be the final nail in the coffin. They care about Mullokah; he is the closest thing they’ve ever come to a little sibling. They never knew the other dragons in the clutch that spawned them; they didn’t even know their parents names, only that Akatosh was the true father of dragons and _dov _families were nonexistent.

_Dov do not build families. We are solitary creatures. The only company of our kin are the mates we take following the rite of combat. _Zaammeytiid shuts their eyes and whispers, “_Mey, Zaammeytiid_. _Mey dov. Krosis los dii. Beyn._”

“Fool, Zaammeytiid. Fool dragon. Sorrow… Something. Scorn?” The guess is fairly accurate and it annoys them that the man’s astute enough to understand their tongue. They don’t look back; they can hear Brynjolf as he walks to their side and looks out across the waters. “What is _los dii?_”

“Is mine. As in,” they grit their teeth. “_Krosis, sorrow, _it is mine. My sorrow. I feel this sorrow, it belongs to me.”

“Why are you sad, lassie?” They can feel his eyes on them.

They don’t look, won’t look. They refuse to acknowledge him beyond words. “This is a punishment, _joor_. All of it. I have committed an act of disobedience against my _in, _my master. The _et’Ada _known as Lord Sheogorath. This universe exists to bring me pain. I deserve it, but Mullokah does not. I will not involve him.”

“He’s a kid who needs a parent. A home.”

“I cannot provide that for him. I’m not a person, much less a _good _one,” Zaammeytiid states softly. They watch the man stoop low to pick up their Amulet of Mara from the docks. Brynjolf turns it over in his hands and parts his lips. He looks up at them and they avert their gaze immediately. “You can… take care of it. If you wish. Do not lose it.”

“Where did you get this, lassie?” Brynjolf asks softly.

“Mullokah gave it to me.”

“That’s,” the man seems relieved. “…Good.”

“Why is everyone so curious about a _necklace?” _Zaammeytiid’s curiosity is piped. They meet his gaze and tear from it immediately. It’s a mistake; they despise the softness in the man’s eyes, the concern in his features, the frown at his lips, _everything _reminds them of their own guilt. The shame is well-deserved; it is part of their punishment for disrespecting the Thieves Guild’s second head.

They don’t wait for an answer. Even though Brynjolf starts to explain, they walk back up the pier and down the dock walkways with him trailing behind them. He’s as stubborn as they are prideful, and irritatingly quick on his feet, he keeps up in step with them as they pass through back streets and alleys.

“Lassie, for the love of—” Brynjolf’s eyes narrow. _“Sahkriimar!”_

He’s stopped behind them five feet out. Nightshade flowers bloom in the graveyard and offer a faint, melancholy aroma. They wait by the mausoleum coffin, the one with a corner that protrudes ever-so-slightly, the one that will let both thieves back into the cistern of their guild. The entrance isn’t open yet. Brynjolf appears hesitant to take another step; Zaammeytiid’s entire body is rigid and stiff as they state. “Out with it, _joor_.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s a simple statement that drains color from their face. They avert their gaze, but Brynjolf continues. “Lassie—I don’t _read minds. _If I pissed you off, tell me why.”

“That’s impossible to do,” Zaammeytiid shakes their head and grits their teeth.

The Nord seems taken aback by their response. He huffs. “Why is that? Can’t be straightforward? By Oblivion—We aren’t teenagers. If you don’t—” His words are cut off by the sound of the chain mechanism as Zaammeytiid press the coffin’s corner and steps back. Brynjolf strides up to their side and looks at them. “Do you want me to _go_, lassie? Is that it? I can take a _no_.”

“_Mey joor!” _Zaammeytiid _growls _the word and leers at him. He doesn’t flinch, and the fact he doesn’t aggravates them to no end. “Foolish man! You’ve done nothing wrong! Stop acting like it!”

“_Clearly, _that isn’t true, lassie, ‘cause we both know this isn’t what either of us _wants_.” Brynjolf grits his teeth.

When they start climbing down the ladder leading to the cistern, he follows them. It’s annoying. They hiss at the man, snarl, roar, but he’s persistent and genuine in his concern. They hate every second of it; he’s too _nice _for their stomach not to flip-flop in anger at themself. In the haste to climb down, one of their feet miss the rungs and they fall the remaining steps to the ground in a loud crash. The _dov _person spews out incessant curses and profanity in their kin’s tongue.

It doesn’t help how quickly Brynjolf scales the rest of the ladder, or how he’s on his feet helping them to their feet in a second, or how his eyes hold only worry and frustration when he peers down at them. They pull their hood over their head; he pulls it down.

“Lassie. Are you _hiding_ from me?” The man grimaces when they pull their hood back up. _“Talos,_ why can’t you leave it down for _one second?_”

“Because,” is all Zaammeytiid offers.

“I just want to talk!” Brynjolf shouts at them when they begin marching away through the exit corridor, heading back to the main cistern. _“Sahkriimar!”_

They stiffen and halt ten steps out from him, almost to the corner that turns and whips back into the guild’s primary cistern. Their hands begin to shake with _rahgot _that can only end poorly. They snap back to look at him and glare daggers when he comes closer. “_What?” _

“Do you want to be alone?” The man’s voice is strained. “Is that what you want, Sahkriimar? Yes or no—_Something._ Don’t pretend I don’t exist, lassie.”

Their face falls. What comes is _krosis_ and shame. Their shoulders slump and they hiss through clenched teeth. “I deserve to be alone, _Brynjolf._”

“_Oblivion, _why do you think that? Why do you keep going on and on ‘bout being _doomed? _You aren’t at the end of life yet, lassie! For Divines sake,” His hands clench into fists and he shakes his head. “I just want an _answer! _You said yourself—I’m worthy of the _sky. _Is that meaningless to you now?”

Their face flushes with heat at the statement. The tension in their body fades and falls to the overwhelming wave of defeat that crashes into them. “You are worthy of the _lok, dii joor._”

“Do you want to be alone?”

“No.” They let their gaze drop. “But you are worth the _lok_, Brynjolf. The heavens of Mundus itself.”

He steps to be but a foot away. His hands rest gently on their arms. When they glance up, they find his eyes wait for them. There’s a pain in his eyes that kills them to see. He hesitates. “Then why are we like this, lassie?”

“Because of me, _dii joor._” They answer softly. When they pull their gaze away, Brynjolf’s hands come to their face and he gently caresses their cheeks. Their eyes water. It’s mentally painful; they feel two forces at opposing sides spar and strike the other as _vahzen _and _krosis _duel _pahlok _and _rahgot. _

“Tell me.”

_Vahzen, _truth, wins.

“The inn.” They see confusion in his face. When he opens his mouth to say something, they lift a finger to his lips. “Not Mullokah’s inn room, _dii joor,_ but the dream.”

Zaammeytiid knows he’s aware of what they refer to when color drains from his face. His hands lower to his sides; their hands do the same. For a moment, neither speak.

“How much did you see, Sahkriimar?” Brynjolf asks softly.

“Enough.”

“_How _did you see it?” It’s disbelief.

Their eyes narrow. They snap their head at him and _hiss _with every ounce of frustration and regret and _guilt _they have, “I used the power of an _et’Ada! Mey, joor! _A Daedric Prince! I asked him to spy on you! Look into your sleep! Your dreams! Your wants! Your desires! I saw _everything!”_

He’s _mortified_. The man looks white as a ghost. He sucks in a deep breath, but he says nothing. There’s too many emotions flickering in his eyes for them to understand, but they know one thing: one of the emotions present is anger.

“…instead of _asking_ me what I thought,” Brynjolf's voice contains a growing rage. He shoves a finger at them and hisses. “You consulted a _Daedra?_ You spied on me—_Violated my privacy!”_

“I did.” Zaammeytiid snaps. “I did! I’m not lying, _diir joor! _I am the _Champion of Sheogorath! _I am the _zaam mey tiid! _I am Lord Sheogorath’s _crown jewel!_ And when I finish my punishment—When I _atone for my disloyalty—_I will return to _my _Lord Sheogorath’s side! Because _none of this _matters! _Nothing _matters! All of this is _my punishment! _You mean _nothing _to me!”

A figure turns the corner and snaps. “Are you two _buffoons _done shouting? It’s past midnight—Brynjolf. Sahkriimar! What in Oblivion are you two doing?”

It’s Mercer Frey. The man looks furious, perhaps equally if not more than Brynjolf. At the sight of the guild master, Zaammeytiid shuts up where as Brynjolf draws back his hand. He doesn’t look at them as he storms past Mercer with a _curt_, “Good night.”

They hope he sleeps well.

Mercer’s brows rise in amusement at the scene. He watches Brynjolf leave, then turns to Zaammeytiid. The guild master groans loudly, gestures for them to follow, and walks back into the main cistern. They trail behind obediently; they are too enraged with _rahgot _and remorse to think clearly. Mercer Frey holds the door to his private quarters open and stares at them until they step through. They oblige, but only after a sharp glare. They stand to the side in the main room and grit their teeth. “_Yes, _guild master?”

“I’m not going to comment on what in Oblivion just happened. That’s not my business. It’s not the _guild_’s business. Don’t let it become the guild’s business or my business, Dragonborn,” Mercer’s criticisms sting. He crosses his arms. “I meant to talk to you sooner, but you skipped out of the guild earlier this evening. You’re slacking. Your jobs aren’t bringing in the cuts we need for them to be worthwhile. You following, Dragonborn?”

“I’m _following, _guild master.” Zaammeytiid hisses.

Mercer growls. “If you don’t bring in a bigger haul then you’re out.”

The statement throws them off their high horse. They freeze and stare at the man’s unflinching posture, at his dark eyes, and at the frown perched on his lips. Mercer Frey is a relentless guild master; he means every word he says and to hear him threaten to revoke their membership of what is essentially _home _is terrifying. They fall quiet and look at their feet. Mercer sighs loudly and walks to a cabinet. He opens it, pulls a map, and walks back to them.

“Lucky you, I’m a capable guild master,” he snaps. He unfurls the map and points at the mountains north of Riften. “I’ve spoken to my contacts and they’ve confirmed there’s an old Nordic tomb here. _Ansilvund._ Now, I was planning to go there _alone_, but I’m extending the job offer to you. If you’re interested in making up for the slack you’ve demonstrated, now’s your chance.”

Zaammeytiid sucks in a deep breath and nods. “Yes, sir. I’d be honored to come along. Sir. _Guild master._”

“Watch the sass or you’re out.” Mercer snaps. He rolls the map back up and waves them toward the door. “Be ready to leave at noontime tomorrow. Pack light.”

“Won’t it be cold?” Zaammeytiid blurts out the question. They huff. “Guild master.”

Mercer growls and pulls the door open for them. “We’re there for a quick loot, not to watch mud dry. Oblivion, Sahkriimar—We need room on the horses for what we bring back. _Pack light.”_

“Okay, okay,” the _dov _person grits their teeth and marches out.

“Trust me,” Mercer stares at them coldly before he shuts the door. “It will be a _very_ short trip.”


	22. one of the reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sullivan and sanguine attend a gathering of princes hosted by lord jyggalag, the prince of order. sullivan bears witness to the negotiations that may determine the new master of the zaam mey tiid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IN THIS SPECIAL CHAPTER WE GET  
DAEDRIC PRINCES!!! and butlers  
and miraak
> 
> love u all, thanks for reading  
hope u enjoy the renditions of these princes  
this chapter diverts from the usual perspective swap because i decided i missed our favorite daedras

Every new turn of time within the Myriad Realms of Revelry _must _be met with _appropriate _attire. It is imperative that his wardrobe comprise of only the finest, most fit silk suits. Nothing short of divine perfection will suffice! Anything less is a disgrace to his Lord, the Prince of Debauchery, and as his service is paid for he fully intends to live up to the indulgence that predominates Lord Sanguine’s sphere. He is _the _Lord Sanguine, a Daedric Prince, one of the most powerful Daedra to exist—And for his butler, Sullivan, it is a _huge _honor to serve and participate in the many parties that take place across Lord Sanguine’s Myriad Realms. Whether it involves him waltzing around a table and trading out dishes for fresh meals, him assisting his Lord and other Daedra in achieving the _pinnacle _of ejaculation, or him standing guard and offering courteous comments to the patrons of a party, everything Sullivan lives and breaths is to _serve. _His existence is validated through the act; his heart jumps with joy at the opportunity to demonstrate his loyalty and prowess of a butler at a new party.

This is not one of Lord Sanguine’s parties.

There are no nude Daedra or mortal souls lingering and asking for towels. There is no music, no raucous laughter, and no drunk patrons singing off-key. There is not even a _single _individual in the act of physical self-stimulation. Not a _single _one; the lack of matsurbation is downright _criminal _if he were ever asked his opinion! No, the only thing the _Crystal Lattice _offers is order, deduction, and too much logic to line up with the way the universe tilts.

Lord Jyggalag is the neutral party playing host to the Daedric powers present. He is the natural candidate for such; all other Daedric Princes fear entering _other’s_ planes, whether it be poor table manners, terrible bedside manners, or a sheer dislike for the Prince in question, it all points to the Daedra settling on the Lord of Logic and Order. Since the end of Lord Jyggalag’s curse—such a delightful thing it was, that Lord Sheogorath offered many fine moments—the Daedric Prince has built himself a glorious plane of Oblivion to call _home_.

It is the pinnacle of orderly things and natural deductions: only the most exquisite symmetrical formations of geometrical geography is allowed in the _Crystal Lattice_ plane. The colors are all monochrome and none clash nor compliment each other save for the barest hints of black-and-white, and only when used in appropriate measurements. The grand castle Lord Jyggalag built for himself has approximately three keeps within a definitive radius of three-point-one-four… something lovely, marvelous, Sullivan is certain of it even if he cannot remember the numbers himself! Each of the keeps is spaced out to form approximate ninety-degree angles between the other. The windows, the walls, the doors, and décor are all given a place that is neither too wrong nor too right; it is the perfection of _order, _of a _place _to belong, and it makes Sullivan’s soul rise in respect for Lord Jyggalag.

Coincidentally, in tune with Lord Jyggalag’s picture-perfect crystalline knight aspect, is the theme of knights, castles, and medieval order. Round tables are a must; each is accompanied with exactly ten glass seats of the most enticing glasswork Sullivan has ever set his eyes on. By the time the Dremora butler and Lord Sanguine are seated, two other Daedra Lords are present in the room: the amorphous, all-knowing aspect of Lord Hermaus Mora, and the dark and shadowed feminine figure of Lady Nocturnal. Both Princes have their own servants present: Lord Mora takes the approach of demonstrating power through a former dragon priest, the fabled First Dragonborn. Miraak is much taller than any mortal Sullivan can remember, but to Sullivan’s surprise the butler manages to beat the Dragonborn’s height by _exactly _one centimeter.

“What a fine coincidence, Lord Sanguine! Lord Mora! Miraak Dragonborn! To see I am _exactly _one centimeter taller! Is this news to you, Lord Mora? It would delight me greatly to serve in any capacity I am able,” Sullivan clasps his hands behind his back and smiles courteously at the silent masked man and Lord Mora.

“_Sanguine._” Lord Mora’s voice is to _die _for in utter fascination and a terribly nightmarish grit that makes even Sullivan want to shiver; he does not, he will never take improper actions unless ordered to by his Lord.

Miraak’s tense form confirms that the Dragonborn is _not _pleased by such remarks.

“Sullivan, a word,” Lord Sanguine’s figure is regal on the glass chair. He’s dressed in the most debauchery-inducing robes, complete with a fine slit in the neckline to show off obsidian-and-crimson skin. Lord Sanguine kicks his feet back and puts them on the round table by the time Sullivan walks over. He gestures for the butler to come closer and Sullivan leans down. Lord Sanguine’s eyes are vivid sanguine-red as he states, “Miraak is not merely a servant—”

Miraak’s growl in the background makes Lord Sanguine grin.

“—But the _Champion _of my _good friend _Hermaus Mora here. So! No poking the dragon.”

“I understand, my Lord, _naturally_ it is in my best interest not to prod Miraak Dragonborn’s form. I will heed your words with utmost dedication!” The butler bows and beams. The hand that squeezes his rear when he moves away brings a delightfully jolly smile to the Dremora’s face. “My Lord, are you in need of relief? I am delighted to serve with any present-existing orifices—”

“Sanguine, I will _cut it off _both you and your butler if either of you expose yourselves to my darlings here.” the voice of Lady Nocturnal is as calm as it is before a storm. She is a masterpiece of mystery and alluring, dancing shadows. Multiple ravens perch on her body and long, dark robes caress her fluid figure.

“Not right now, Sullivan. Maybe later,” Lord Sanguine grins wickedly.

“Duly noted, my Lord! Naturally speaking, I will hold off on any hypothetical penetration for the time being; do let me know if you are in need of _anything_ else.” Sullivan sticks to just behind Lord Sanguine’s _perfectly symmetrical _chair.

It brings Sullivan great pleasure to see Lord Sanguine pull three bottles of alto wine from a sleeve and five wineglasses from the other sleeve. Lord Sanguine pours a glass for the three Daedra Lords. He pauses and glances at Miraak. “Hermaus, my good friend, _good _friend, you mind telling me if the grump meister here likes alcohol? Is he allowed to have it?”

“Miraak. Answer him.” The Daedric Prince of Knowledge gurgles the words and they ringacross the room.

“I do not drink.” Miraak’s voice is surprisingly weary.

Sullivan feels ashamed to call him a _champion. _Any Daedra would be _honored _to serve such a high position! But the Daedric Princes obsess over mortal souls and the powers they have; very few Daedras ever reach such ranks in the service of a Prince. He keeps the comments to himself; Lord Sanguine asked him to _mind _Miraak Dragonborn. Well, technically he requested Sullivan refrain from poking, prodding, or otherwise physically assuaging the former dragon priest; but Sullivan has manners.

The next Prince to arrive to the Crystal Lattice comes in a howl of wolves and slow, careful footsteps. The aspect of Prince Hircine is a natural-born hunter: a humanoid man with a deer pelt and head encompassing the shoulders-up strides into the central chamber. With him is not one, not two, but _three _werewolves in their shifted forms. When Lord Hircine enters, Lord Sanguine sits upright and clears his throat. The two Princes exchange looks at the other before Lord Hircine walks _directly _at the fun-loving Lord of Debauchery. Lord Hircine climbs over the table to do it; the Lord does not appear to mind trudging on top of furniture. Such is life for the Prince of the _Hunt _and _Great Chase. _

“Been a long time since we crossed paths, friend,” Sanguine’s voice contains a note of amusement. He grins ear-to-ear. “Hey, your last champion—Did you ever find that body, or—?”

“If I did not _respect _the Order of Lord Jyggalag,” Lord Hircine’s voice is hushed, like a hunter alerting comrades but never the prey. “I would have my servants tear you limb-from-limb.”

“You mean your servants would _try_. Last I checked—They lost.” Sanguine sits upright and cracks his neck, then his knuckles. “Want a drink, buckaroo? Uncle Sanguine’s here to _share_.”

It doesn’t pass on Sullivan that one of the werewolves stares directly at him. He notes another werewolf keeps a sharp look on Miraak. Lord Hircine is cautious and tactical; he is not without guards to mind or dilly-dally existing champions and servants should things go awry. It is a wise decision; all Princes present take on a risk venturing into another Prince’s plane of Oblivion. Such inter-planar travel is both decisively decisive and theoretically _rewarding_.

In spite of Sanguine waving around a glass of filled wine, Lord Hircine ignores the Prince and takes a seat further down the table, next to Lady Nocturnal. She glances at him, grimaces, and draws her ethereal form up to her chest on the chair.

“Keep your filthy mutts off my beautiful midnight messengers.” Lady Nocturnal warns, perfectly in tune to the cry of several ravens.

Lord Hircine’s smile is visible behind the deer pelt. His teeth are stained red. His voice rises and he whispers, “It would be my _pleasure, _Nocturnal.”

“You two never cease to _fascinate_, so _in-sync _with animosity,” words come crawling forward like viscous chunks of sewage from Lord Mora’s aspect. “My offer remains open. Should the _urges _arrive. You are _free _to let me to _observe _the reproductive habits of two Daedric Princes. It is _purely_ observational…”

“I’ll rip your tendrils out and feed them to my ravens, Mora. Do not _speak _of such things with a disgusting beast like Hircine.” Lady Nocturnal’s voice becomes airy and light, like a ray of moonlight gleaming on a dark world. She holds a hand out; a raven flies in from the opening chamber door to land on her wrist.

“Look, _Nocturnal_—If you don’t like it rough that’s one thing—But it’s downright rude to insult a perfectly good lay like Hircine.” Sanguine sips his glass.

“I would never initiate with a feral creature. The night is too pure for a monster.” The Prince strokes the head of the raven on her wrist. The bird appears perfectly content, even when Lady Nocturnal squeezes its body and causes it to explode into a shroud of darkness. The shadows fade and the Prince smiles politely at the rest of the room.

All three werewolf servants of Lord Hircine, and Lord Hircine himself, snap to attention at a bark coming from beyond the chamber. A snarky man’s voice comes rattling after, “Lookit you, tall guy! Last time I heard of you—You were still, what, stuck in that ever-repeating power-struggle between you and yourself? Fancy-pants now! Mister fancy-pants, ha, ha! Excuse me if I come on through here leaving some gifts, I’m not _known _for being potty-trained with all the shit Clavicus here keeps throwin’ at me.”

Sullivan beams brightly at a large, fluffy dog that comes barreling in. The dog leaps unto the table and looks around the room. It’s eyes are big, bright, and full of a sentience far beyond most.

“Oh, _yikes, _look how many are already here! _Clavicus! Vile! Mister Vile! My main man! _Get your ass in here, we’re runnin’ late—” The dog howls at the doors.

“Lord Barbas, hello, technically the meeting has no designated start time due to Lord Jyggalag prohibiting the flow of time across the Crystal Lattice.” Sullivan politely greets the dog.

Barbas barks at him. “No _shit_, buddy, don’t try and do my job for me—I’ve got four legs _and_ a tail and I _can _and _will _pee all over that pretty little suit of yours. You let me keep an eye out for _my _Prince, and you do the same for _yours_. Cool? Cool.”

“Of course, Lord Barbas, it would be my pleasure.” Sullivan bows.

The dog grimaces and scampers to an empty chair at the opposite curve of the table, where one can more or less peer directly at Lord Sanguine and Sullivan. Sullivan takes note of the fact _none _of the other Daedric Princes appear happy to sit next to his Lord.

“Does no one set alarms? _Barbas! _You foolish mutt, how _dare _you!” A well-groomed humanoid in his twenties with wild hair framing a set of long horns and a very-well-worn toga strides into the chamber. The Prince of Pacts and Wishes glares at Lord Barbas and storms to the dog’s chair. Lord Clavicus Vile promptly shoves Lord Barbas to the ground and takes his seat. “Filthy breed, you are! I ought to have you put down and cremated to a crisp! Would that make you happy? Causing me to oversleep the event of _many _mortals lifetimes?”

“I set an alarm, buddy. Pal. Vile. My main man. You don’t wake easily outside the Fields of Regret.” The dog offers a sympathetic wag of the tail.

“You will be punished for this. Another lap around Falkreath.” Lord Vile hisses and crosses his arms.

“Startin’ to regret not sitting with the hot stuff, Nocturnal? You got Mora, Hircine, and the _dog _over there. All _this,_” Sanguine calmly gestures to his body. “Right _here_. Waiting for some _fun. _I even brought drinks!”

“By Oblivion, how did you get those in here? Jyggalag threatened to search _all _my clothes and cavities, nooks and crannies if I didn’t hand over my wine! _Disgraceful_ knight!” Lord Vile slouches in the chair. “I liked him better when he was Sheogorath! Before that _hero _came and fucked everything up!”

“I think we all did, to be fair. Except Jyggalag.” Lord Sanguine rubs his chin. He holds a bottle to the air and, at Lord Vile’s eager nod, tosses it over. The Prince catches it and Sanguine offers a light, amused clap.

The chamber doors open to reveal the sight of the epitome of order. A crystalline knight, perfect to the vows he took yet every bit as strong as needed to rule a plane of Oblivion, strides forward and stops short of the round table. Constructs of crystalline minerals shut the double doors of the chamber behind him. The Prince of Order and Deduction, Lord Jyggalag, stands at an impressive eight-feet-tall. Even Lord Sanguine, _just _shy of seven feet in Dremora form, cannot topple the powerful Prince. Lord Jyggalag stands tall and upright; every piece of his armor is polished to a glistening reflective quality. His construct guards wait for orders at his side.

“Prince Vaermina and Prince Peryite issued summons for records of this gathering.” Lord Jyggalag speaks without emotion. He radiates an aura that dissuades chaos. “Prince Mephala and Prince Namira confirm attendance to the next one. Prince Boethiah has been barred from the junction due to disorderly conduct, threats of force, and impotent displays of discord.”

Lord Sanguine whistles sharply and sits upright. He props himself up on the table with an arm and waves a hand around. “So—I take it the rest aren’t coming, Jyggalag?”

“Prince Meridia and Prince Azura rejected the proposal to meet on the basis of _debauchery_ you demonstrated at the last _Feast of Princes._ The other Princes have been denied access to the Crystal Lattice on behalf of the provisions requested by _yourself_, Prince Sanguine, or have bypassed the allotted response time to mandate an invitation.” Jyggalag’s helm hides all facial expression. The Prince of Order pauses. “A warning, Sanguine: failure to acknowledge your own conditions may result in removal of the terms agreed upon by members of this party.”

“I wasn’t _aware _there were _terms _previously determined. Why don’t you _indulge _us in an explanation, Sanguine? Since you are so eager to get a head start on this matter. Reminds me of another time, actually,” Lady Nocturnal’s eyes darken to a pitch black. Her birds do the same and one raven croons sweetly. She looks around the room. “Are we in agreement to hear the terms?”

“I am perplexed...” Mora’s voice washes into Sullivan’s ears. “To _know_ what _my companion _Sanguine here wants to keep from us so, _so _badly.”

Lord Vile finishes his bottle of wine and smiles formally. “It does not impart me pleasure to lack knowledge of this meeting. I am _truly sorry_, Sanguine, you will have to accept my _apologies _for keeping me out of ‘the loop.’”

“Good one, Vile.” Barbas barks. Clavicus pats the dog’s head.

“Prince Hircine,” both the Prince of the Hunt and his three werewolves leer at Prince Jyggalag. “Do you offer input or is the consensus settled?”

“Speak the terms. We should all be on… equal playing ground.” Lord Hircine cocks his head to one side and stares at Lord Sanguine.

Sullivan doubts the ground _isn’t _level and capable of being played on. Everything else in the Crystal Lattice is up-to-par with Lord Jyggalag’s excessively high and perpetually growing standards. Only the _best _for Order, some might say.

“Prince Sanguine, in submitting your request to appoint me as a mediator between yourself, other Princes, and Prince Sheogorath, also known as the _Hero of Kvatch, Grey Fox,_ and _Champion of Cyrodiil,_ you hereby delegate the following mandates to all decrees forged by Prince Jyggalag in the Crystal Lattice, Oblivion,” Lord Jyggalag speaks slowly and clearly. He enunciates each work without trouble. He doesn’t sputter or lose his place in the imaginary paper he has in front of him. “One: Prince Molag Bal is barred from participating in these meetings.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can see why. I don’t care for the Daedra myself.” Lord Barbas growls.

“Two: under _no _circumstances can the aforementioned soul _zaam mey tiid _be used against Prince Sanguine inside or outside his plane of Oblivion. Three: the _zaam mey tiid _cannot be used impose force, fear, or struggling unto the life of _Kara._” Lord Jyggalag pauses reading right as the rest of the room turns eyes to Sanguine.

He snorts. “I think it’s fair.”

“Kara… the former Dragonborn. You stole her soul too quick for the rest. No pride in that hunt, Sanguine.” Lord Hircine snaps upright and lets out a deep growl. _“I wanted her. _My Companions saw her _first.”_

“I’m sure _all_ of us wanted her, pal,” Lord Sanguine pinches the brow of his aspect’s nose. “She’s not for grabs.”

“I’m curious to know your obsession with her. So tempting, all that _sweet_ flesh—You’ve indulged, I can smell it even now,” the Prince of the Hunt inhales deeply and shivers in need. “You could have _devoured_ her.”

“I prefer actual intercourse, thank you.” Lord Sanguine states without pause.

Sullivan taps his shoulder. When he grunts in acknowledgement, Sullivan nudges him in the direction of Lady Nocturnal and Lord Mora. The two Princes are unusually quiet. Even Miraak and Lady Nocturnal’s birds don’t say a word. Lord Sanguine straightens upright and stares at the two until Lady Nocturnal smiles _politely _and peers at Lord Sanguine. “You are _such _a charmer. Like a moonless night… Only the heavens to guide you, Sanguine. You revel in your lust but forget to note all the other facets of your star.”

“She is Dragonborn once again.” Prince Mora’s declaration is met with multiple sets of eyes turning to stare at his aspect. The amorphous figure pulsates with an alien frequency.

Lord Sanguine stares. “That’s not possible.”

“But it is, my dear, it _is_, and I have messengers who can prove it.” Lady Nocturnal hums thoughtfully and bows her head. “This universe is _full _of exciting twists and turns. I have never dreamed such a lonely night before. Can it truly be the work of our kin for such a tale to unfold? The very Kara you stole out from under us last time—She is _Dragonborn_, Sanguine. She possesses the _Voice_.”

“She’s not the consumer anymore,” Lord Sanguine grits his teeth. He points at Lady Nocturnal. “How and what and _why _is she _Dragonborn_?”

“There’s three across Skyrim presently. But one will not live _long_.” Lord Mora’s voice is a guzzle of slugs and sloths and shedding skin.

“Oh, Mora, you almost enthralled me—But you are not so wise as you are _stubborn, _my lovely,” Lady Nocturnal’s smile is as deadly as a back hole, as rapturing as a sweet bird’s song, and as full of pity as a common man besides a beggar. “You think _that _one will perish?”

“It is the way the story goes,” the Prince of Knowledge breathes. “_The way it ends._”

“Someone tell me what in _Oblivion _you’re talking about before I get pissed!” Sanguine _spits_ the words, patience fading with a strangely _joor _emotion: worry. It seeps out of him like rose-flavored wine: the moment of weakness reveals itself and all other Princes fall silent.

Barbas barks. “Was that _really _necessary? C’mon.”

“I am learning _many_ things today.” Lord Mora’s comment is quiet and sly, gleeful and dangerous.

“_There will be Order in my Plane._” Lord Jyggalag’s words are a _command _and a _warning _even the other Princes heed to. The crystalline knight looks around the table for any hint of resistance or disagreement. There is none. He continues, “It is not a topic of discussion for this meeting, Prince Sanguine. We have Order to the matters at hand. Several Princes have pointed out there is another _claim _to the soul of the _zaam mey tiid_. This is false; any claim over the dragon is rendered ineligible in favor of pre-existing ownership. The _zaam mey tiid _served me as Prince Jyggalag and Prince Sheogorath across the Shivering Isles for thousands of years. The ownership was bestowed to the current Prince of Madness following the end of the Greymarch, two-hundred years prior on Mundus. The _Night Mother_ and _Sithis _do not have claim to the dragon’s soul.”

“If, say, the _zaam mey tiid _were to suddenly enlist in the service of Sithis—When ownership is being _exchanged_—Is it possible the dragon might wind up in the Void?” Lord Vile poses the question with grace. “The _zaam mey tiid _does have a physical form on Mundus that could swear loyalty to Sithis.”

“That is a risk all Princes must consider when the ownership of this soul passes to a new Daedra.” Jyggalag bows his head. “Any other questions? Is the consensus to continue?”

“No other _previously disclosed terms _Sanguine forgot to mention?” Lord Vile raises a brow.

“None, Prince Vile.”

Lord Hircine stands and turns to face Lord Sanguine down the table. The Daedric Prince asks in a voice calm as the lightest fluttering of snow, “How do we know Sheogorath will _hand _the _zaam mey tiid _over so willingly? He is the Prince of Madness…”

“May I, Sanguine? My good, old, _dear _friend?” Lord Mora retches the words. Sullivan’s brows furrow as he observes the amorphous aspect of Lord Mora rise to stare down Lord Hircine’s pelt-covered head. Lord Mora does not wait for Sanguine’s response as his words bellow out in belches and sizzling snips. “…Two hundred years ago… _Mundus _was invaded by our _good _friend—Mehrunes Dagon. A man… Martin Septim… He _shattered _the Amulet of Kings and _became _the aspect of Akatosh itself. A death most fitting a Bard’s tale. But what _most _do not _know _is—The Hero of Kvatch… The one who went on to become our new Sheogorath—He _loved _Martin Septim.”

“Martin Septim is not a soul in _anyones _possession, Mora.” Lady Nocturnal clears her throat and flutters her eyelashes. Her smile is the coming dusk and her eyes as dark as a new moon. “How can he be part of this majestic assemble?”

“Because he was a _Sanguinite _before he became a flying lizard thing.” Sanguine _huffs _from the side. “Way back in the day, I got Martin to fuck a tree for me. Don’t ask, it was _really _up there in list of things I didn’t think the guy would do, but he did it and I got him a rose courtesy of _yours truly. _Now I never _claimed _ownership of his soul—But that doesn’t mean it ain’t there. I technically have right to it. It’s time I exercised that right.”

“Prince Sanguine has offered to barter using Martin Septim’s soul _if _Prince Sheogorath does not cooperate. He does not hold interest in trading for the soul of the _zaam mey tiid_.” Jyggalag looks across the room. “Questions?”

“I can’t help but wonder, Jyggalag,” Lady Nocturnal glances at Sanguine and throws up a warm and welcoming smile. “What do _you _get out of this, Sanguine? If you aren’t trading for a dragon—Why bother at all?”

“I was just thinking,” Sanguine looks thoughtful. “How great it would be if you got the soul and banged me in thanks. I’ve always wondered what’s _under_ those robes of yours—”

A gale of violet magic blazes through the chamber and bolts toward Sullivan. The butler parts his lips to speak but nothing comes out as the call of a summoning storms his form and forces him to bend and travel in the wake of the spell. One second, he is in the perfectly-formed and orderly plane of Oblivion known as the _Crystal Lattice. _The next second, he is in the middle of a field drenched in snow with more snow falling from clouds blanketing the sky. The clash of weapons fills in the air and the Dremora instinctively conjures a greatsword in his hands while he awaits the command of his summoner.

He spies at _least _seven combatants, but he remains uncertain which are allies and which are foes. It doesn’t matter; the voice of his summoner breathes an order into his mind: _Take them out! Leave one prisoner! Kill the rest! _

Sullivan’s eyes narrow and the blood-thirst of his kind rises to the surface. He _growls _and charges forward, swinging the great Daedric sword and burying it into the torso of an Imperial woman. The butler _shoves _her aside as another woman screams nearby. Sullivan uses the momentum to cross blades with a ginger-haired Nord who looks vaguely familiar. He throws raw weight and strength into _shoving _the man backward and follows up with a kick to the Nord’s chest. The Nord falls backward but scrambles to his feet. Sullivan puts an end to him with a smack of the flat of his sword against the Nord’s head. He feels an arrow pierce his lovely, silky suit, and the Dremora’s head snaps to look in the direction of the archer.

He stiffens even as the woman notches another arrow and aims. _“Lady Kara?”_

Kara releases the arrow. Sullivan gasps and looks down in time to feel conjuration magic _whisk _him away. The woman’s aim is on target; the arrow remains embedded in his chest until his body reforms back in the Crystal Lattice. The Daedric Princes in the room stop and stare at him as the sphere of purple magic dissipates and he is freed from temporary service. His mind is a rush of different things but the most important thing is _seeing Kara again_. He turns to his Lord, bows, and utters a quiet, “Lord Sanguine—”

“Is this that important to say? We _just _got to talkin’ about _Mundus _—” Barbas barks from the side, annoyed.

Sullivan spins on his heels and hisses. “Lord Barbas, if you would _be so kind to wait a moment, _I must inform Lord Sanguine of important news!”

“You got called to serve on Mundus for a bit. Congratulations, Sullivan. Now get your fine rear off the _table._” Sanguine crosses his arms. 

“_Lord Sanguine, _it is about Kara—” The butler clenches his eyes shut and inhales deeply. “Forgive me, my Lord, for the disrespectful outburst—”

“What about Kara?” It’s caught his full attention. Sanguine’s eyes are narrowed on Sullivan’s form and not moving an inch.

“The conjurer who called me summoned me to a fight occurring between Kara’s party and another group. I assume from the injuries her arrows sustained on me that I was not summoned to assist her party in combat but to combat them myself.” Sullivan speaks with remorse, for he is sincerely regretful to have ever crosses blades with any of Kara’s friends. “I may have murdered one of them in the process—”

Another wail of purple magic comes _pouring _into the room and it wraps around Sullivan’s form and caresses him like one of Sanguine’s many worshippers have in the past. He lets himself meld with its touch and exhales sharply as the conjuration spell pulls him from the plane of Oblivion and deposits him on the same scene as before. But time has slightly passed. In what felt like merely _seconds, _it is obvious several minutes have gone by: most combatants are dead, Kara’s group appears to be intact. A wood elf casting restoration magic kneels near a bleeding white-haired Imperial woman.

_Kill them! Protect me! _Sullivan’s summoner demands it in thought.

His brows furrow. “Lady Kara?”

The words make the _entirety _of Kara’s group jump. Kara, the ginger-Nord he hit before, and a fifth brown-haired Imperial thief draw their weapons and storm at him. He conjures a greatsword in hand but takes a wide, defensive stance as the ginger Nord swoops in and _bashes _two enchanted ebony swords against his own greatsword. Sullivan hisses and attempts to force the Nord back, but Kara pulls an ebony dagger and jams it into his shoulder.

_“Lady Kara!!” _Sullivan screeches the words in pain as blood drizzles down his shoulder. From the impact. “I am so, _so _terribly sorry for hurting you, m’am! Please forgive me!”

“What in _Zeus?”_ The Dragonborn growls lowly.

“_Kara! _That’s the—The Daedra you’ve summoned—_fuck, _Niruin, you shit—Watch it!” The white-haired Imperial screeches in pain. It makes the wood elf huff.

“Vex, you are _truly_ a joy to have in the land of the living.” The bosmer declares.

“It’s the woman—She’s a mage!” The dark-haired Imperial man _surges _past Sullivan. The Dremora snaps to attention and throws his body weight into the thief; he intercepts the thief’s path and sends both sprawling while another of Lady Kara’s arrows hits him in the back. The Dremora’s body dissipates in a vortex of indigo magic; he’s ripped from the plane of Mundus once more and deposited in a corner of the meeting room. At his arrival, Lord Jyggalag stands.

“Prince Sanguine. If your butler continues to interrupt, he will be removed from this proceeding.” The Prince’s voice booms from his crystal helm.

Sullivan clasps his hands behind his back and clears his throat. “My _dearest_ apologies, Lord Jyggalag! Naturally, I _fully_ understand if you wish to have me quartered and drawn or beheaded as a message to the other servants of the Princes.”

“Sullivan,” Lord Sanguine speaks faintly. “Was it her again?”

The butler nods firmly and crosses to Sanguine’s side. He leans to the Prince’s ears and says, “Time flows differently on Mundus, my Lord, it appears the battle was on the precipice of ending. Lady Kara remains alive, but she did not recognize me."

_“Oblivion,_” the Prince curses softly. He grits his teeth and glances around the room. “Sullivan, I _can’t _go there right now—But you _can’t _attack—"

“_Prince Sanguine,_” Jyggalag interrupts._ “_Are you _finished?_ I will send you out with your butler; You are not necessary to review—”

“I _am,_ actually, just tellin’ Sullivan here to mind his manners. You know how it is, what with Daedra servants disobeying and going against your whims, huh? Or. Maybe not. These guys all seem mindless,” Lord Sanguine gestures to the crystalline constructs that stand at the ready by the doors. “Not that I _blame _you, Jyggalag! Of course not. We’re all friends here, eh? Eh? Anyone?”

“Eh, you’re what the kids would call a _fart_. Can’t keep that shit-eating grin off your face, fucking babes left and right… Like, how can anyone not look at you and go, ‘Get a load of this guy!’” Barbas’ move doesn’t move when he talks, unless it is to bark. His voice projects from the spot he sits on Lord Vile’s lap. “I mean, really, why would _anyone _think we’re _friends?_ We’re allies _at best! _Minimum-effort acquaintances! Let’s be _real _here, we’re all vying for that _sweet, decadent _dragon soul. Chances are, it’s going to Mora the Bored One here to join the rest of his collection.”

“I advise you refrain from assumptions.” Lord Hircine hushes the dog with a hiss.

“My _dear_ Hircine, the mutt _does _have a point—We are not comrades-in-arms, nor do we hold loyalty for the other. Though I _am _one to dabble in your lovely parties, Sanguine, it is not cause for friendship. If a dragon soul was not for grabs—Would we be here? No.” Clavicus Vile clears his throat and looks at Sanguine expectantly.

Sullivan stays quiet—perfectly upright, Jyggalag would be proud of the posture—and watches the different Daedric Princes go back and forth over _how much _they despise the other. There is no denying centuries of animosity between the _et’Ada, _the gods in the room. Only Lord Jyggalag remains neutral and stiff to the words; his composure is legendary and not a hint of offense nor anger ever rises in spite of the drabble some Princes begin to rattle off. 

“There _will _be Order!” Jyggalag’s voice crashes across the room with increasing volume He stomps one crystal greave against the stone floor of the castle. “You have been invited here out of concern for the expanse of our realms. The Void itself is threatened by the subjective madness of Prince Sheogorath.”

“He’s a… _former _mortal.” Hermaus’ aspect flickers in and out on opacity. Sullivan takes care not to stare; it would do not good to make the Prince feel like he was being _rude_.

“Prince Sheogorath proved his capabilities two-hundred-years ago across Tamriel. He is the Gray Fox; the title of _Sheogorath _is merely a way to assign him influence across the planes.” Lord Jyggalag replies without pause. “Prince Hermaeus Mora, I ask you listen to Prince Sanguine’s words. He has witnessed the fall and rise of the previous universe first-hand.”

“We _know _Sheogorath is capable, Jyggalag, don’t take our words _out of context—”_ Lady Nocturnal tilts her head to one side and hums a sweet nightingale melody. “But his powers cannot affect _us_. He can be dealt with. A mortal has done it before _and_, if called for, I am more than happy to stick my Nightingales on his sources of power across Mundus.”

“And they call _me _arrogant—Ha!” Sanguine belts out laughter and holds his sides. He reaches for a bottle of wine and messes with the cork. “Oblivion, Nocturnal, listen, honey, you’re _real _cute and all, but do you ever consider the fact you know _jack shit_ about Sheogorath? We ain’t talking the Hero of Kvatch! We’re talking about the _Prince of Madness _here! Gods, Jyggalag—I am _sorry _I keep interrupting, I am, _truly, _but I need to set something straight here since these _buffoons_ keep _dismissing_ the _severity _of the situation.” Sanguine shoves his chair back, stands, and looks across the room.

Sullivan smiles politely when he becomes aware the Prince intends to capture all attention. Not even Lord Hircine and his werewolves can keep their eyes off the Lord of Debauchery.

“All of us have been _questioning _who the fuck’s responsible for distorting and warping Time. Well, we got our answer. Sheo’s finagled his way to power we can’t manage. It’s out of lines; it’s almost as bad as the time Jyggalag here became the equivalent of a _primordial overseer_ in strength alone. _Unacceptable—_No offense, Jyggalag,” Sanguine huffs and waves off the crystalline knight’s gaze. “I saw Sheogorath freeze _Time _on the Throat of the World. That’s Akatosh’s domain; it shouldn’t be accessible by us wimpy _Daedra. _Clearly—Something’s changed, something’s turned upside its head.”

“The Aedra—_Akatosh—_Will he not _handle _the disobedient welp? Sheogorath is… a pup compared to the dragon-man.” Hircine props himself up on one elbow against the table. His eyes gleam and glow bloodlust and amusement, a wanton desire to _hunt _and _chase _melded into the patience of a waiting hunter.

“Well, that’s the problem.” Sanguine’s grin becomes crooked and lopsided as he _finally _tears the cork free of his alto wine bottle and takes a hearty swallow. He sighs in satisfaction. “Akatosh… _Yeah, _yeah, we don’t mess with the Aedra, they usually don’t mess with us unless _someone here opens a gate to Oblivion. _Not saying _we _did it, but we all know Mehrunes Dagon’s got more pride than arms.”

_A suitable quip, my Lord! _Sullivan longs to say the words, to energetically support _his _Lord. To hold back on the statement kills him inside.

The form of Hermaus Mora produces one calcified, green-yellow eyes that spirals wildly and then veers to stare at the Lord of Debauchery. “…What are you… _suggesting? Oblivion Gates?_ Sanguine…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m _suggesting _what you’re thinking. No, not even that, I’m going _beyond _suggesting it and telling you it’s _happening. _Not the Gates—But the ability to cross the lines Akatosh put up. Good ol’ Sheo has gone and screwed the boundaries that keep us contained to the Void. He can manifest directly on Mundus, on _Nirn_. When I confronted him on the Throat of the World—He proved it. He made the sky fall and the universe fold under madness. That’s far from being a _pup_, Hircine.” The Lord of Debauchery sits down, puts his feet up on the table, and allows his robes to dissipate in favor of instantly donning an entire suit of plated Daedric armor. The equipment glimmers and gleams a shifting red with decadent enchantments.

“…Is this true? Jyggalag? Has the Prince of Madness discerned means to enter Mundus directly?” Lady Nocturnal folds her hands and leans forward in her seat. Her dark eyes, blacker than any night sky, lock unto the crystal knight. The Prince stares. “Jyggalag. I trust your word. Not your power—Never your power—But your _word_. Has Sheogorath surpassed the threshhold of the Shivering Isles?”

“It is true.” The Prince of Order asserts.

A hush falls over the Princes.

“…_perplexing_… How _Sanguine _found this out—How _he _is the first… When I, the Prince of Knowledge, the all-seeing, knowing, _observant… _The Watcher… Gardener of _Men…_ I was not informed?” Hermaeus’ single eye hovers in place; amorphous shadows dance around the air beneath it. Behind the Prince’s aspect, Miraak’s form tenses but the former dragon priest says nothing.

“What took place on the Throat of the World, Sanguine? If we are to take your claims of _severity _seriously, then please do _fill us in. _Tell us how the sky fell. Tell us how the universe reset. We were all a bit shocked it happened so suddenly; in the past it has always been after the death of a universe’s consumer _or _the defeat of Alduin, World-Eater.” Nocturnal raises a brow and offers a piss-poor smile. “I’ll even wager a guess; I’m feeling _lucky _tonight. It involves the Dragonborn you greedily kept from us, mm? _Kara?_”

Sanguine’s eyes gleam and twinkle. He grins and nods. “Queen of luck, as _always, _Nocturnal, you amaze me! Finding the obvious, pointing out what they’re smart enough to deduce. Yeah, Kara’s involved. She was a mage at the time. Knew the spell to summon a Dremora—”

“You are a _Prince. _Not a _measly Dremora._ Even I acknowledge your power,” Hircine cuts the other Prince off. His voice is a whisper once more and his werewolves eye Sanguine hungrily while the Prince of the Hunt continues. “…There are _conditions _to summoning a _Prince. _Hermaeus Mora—You keep a record of them. Do you not?”

The amorphous eye belches and sizzles and _pops _in alien sounds. Dark tendrils flicker in and out of the bowl of shadows building around the eye’s point of levitation. “_The darkest desire… The desperation… _But only to see _you. _A Dragonborn to perish does not think of a _Prince, _Sanguine…”

“Okay, okay, so I might’ve left a _few _details out! Oblivion, Mora, you have _no shame _in sharing knowledge with half of Oblivion, do you?” The Lord of Debauchery snaps and huffs. “So I _may have _known because of something other than a spell. No big deal. I used a _little _power to heal injuries the Dragonborn sustained over her journey.”

“_You healed a mortal?_” Hircine leaps to his feet and storms to the Prince before Jyggalag has a chance to intervene. The Prince of the Hunt hauls Sanguine’s equally-tall figure to his feet and leers at him with howls of a full moon behind his tone. “I _knew _you were weak!”

“Try that again and I'll show you how fast I can skin a dog," Sanguine shoves the Prince away and spits at his feet. His fists clench. “What we each do with our power is up to us.”

“Unless it involves breaking the chords of Time and entering Mundus. The fury of Akatosh is a thorough thing; this will end in blood.” Nocturnal pets the head of one raven. She lets it crawl up her finger, arm, and settle at her shoulder. “But we know that. We know Sheogorath will die for this. We can agree on the limitations imposed on each other, my fine fellow Daedra. No one wants their followers dead. But I digress. Sanguine, please go on and share more—I’m fixated on this desire of yours, on the Dragonborn you _rudely snatched _up for yourself.”

“Hey—Kara sought _me _out, not the other way around. Can’t blame her for having good taste.” The Lord of Debauchery snorts and waves Nocturnal’s words off. He sits at the table and side-eyes Hircine’s imposing figure. “Sit, dog.”

“I smell the ravage of _lust_ on you, Prince.” Hircine hisses the words loud enough for all to hear.

“I bedded her, _sure, _let’s focus on that and not the _Prince of Madness _and his ability to _bypass _the need for _Oblivion Gates. _Let’s ignore Sheogorath popping up on Mundus and directly interfering with everyones affairs! C’mon, Hircine, if you want to be involved in my sex life all you need to do is _ask,_” Sanguine growls the last word. “I’d be happy to show you a thing or two _doggy-style._”

“Yikes, talk about animosity. I hope I ain’t like this with you most days.” Barbas barks and licks Clavicus Vile’s arm. “You love me, right, buddy? Buddy ol’ pal? I’m your _best friend!_ You wouldn’t think to get rid of me?”

“I’d slaughter you in a second, my dear Barbas, if you annoyed me too much. Let you sit and reform in the Void of Oblivion thinking and stewing over what you did wrong.” Lord Vile smiles politely at the dog. “You think I have forgotten where half my power went? Oh, to be whole again—You _constantly _irritate me. Let’s change subjects.”

“Uh-huh-yeah, right, good idea.” Barbas jumps off of Lord Vile’s lap and leaps unto an empty chair.

“_ORDER.” _Jyggalag’s voice is free of anger but the volume shatters the table in front of the group into a thousand symmetrical pieces. The furniture begins to reform _instantly _after the pieces hit the ground; the construct guards of the Crystal Lattice cast pale-blue magicka to wield the table back together.

“Studious, noble, _orderly _Jyggalag—I _must _insist we hear Sanguine speak on this! How a mortal summoned him to the Throat of the World—It _clearly _wasn’t a spell, oh _no, _definitely not. What else could it be? _Hm?_” Nocturnal drums her fingers along the new tabletop. She adjusts her robes and smiles warmly at Sanguine. “What if—And by the grace of the moon, the gleam of the night, the _shadows _I am and was and will always be—What _if _Sanguine wasn’t summoned? What if he _went _there? A manifestation—Or perhaps not.”

The Prince of Hedonism, Debauchery, and Indulgences stiffens at her words.

_“Excuse me?” _He growls and slams his wine bottle on the table while Hermaus Mora cackles and gurgles in bubbling laughter. Hircine returns to his seat without further comment.

“It t’was a _joke_, Sanguine, you _must _relax.” Nocturnal hums in response. “We are all aware that your power was weakened by the reset. _How _and _for what _remains to be seen, but you are not a priority to the rest of us Princes.”

“I _manifested _on Mundus, _projected_ part of myself there, sure. But even I don’t have the power to go to Mundus directly! That’s why we have _Oblivion Gates _to do the work for us!” The accusation pisses off Sanguine. He snaps each word, his spittle hits the table in the process.

“Then explain the Throat of the World. I want to give you the benefit of the doubt, but our Lady of the Night here has a point.” Clavicus Vile says.

“Call me that again,” Nocturnal smiles faintly. “And I will _happily _have my children skewer your eyes and testicles.”

“Prince Sanguine. Do go on. Tell us _all _about the Throat of the World.” Lord Vile ignores Nocturnal’s threat and flashes Sanguine a smile.

“I,” the Lord of Debauchery grits his teeth. “…The power I _invested _in the Dragonborn. She found a way to _reverse _it. _Return it _to me.”

Clavicus Vile whistles sharply and Hermaeus Mora’s unblinking eye stares in amusement. Nocturnal offers only a growing grin, akin to a waxing crescent in the sky.

_“You knew,”_ It clicks in Sanguine’s head and he hisses at Nocturnal and Hermaeus Mora alike. His fists clench and his growl causes the table to _shudder. _“How many you tell, Mora?”

“I… _informed _Lady Luck. It is essential to _keep each other honest._”

“It is news for the _rest_ of us.” Hircine grits his teeth. “You lied earlier.”

“Hermaeus Mora and I both did. But we can _explain _ourselves, Hircine… Or I can, and I will. Sanguine,” Lady Luck pauses, “I had hoped you would tell us about _Kara _by yourself. I _wanted_ to hear all this from your _decadent, _indulgent lips, Sanguine. I wanted to hear your weakness. The _vulnerability _makes me want to _shroud _the world in shadows. Level the realm with darkness. _Encompass your Dragonborn in my blessings and rip her from your arms._ But _alas—"_

“Kara’s not into bitches with birds hawking around.” Sanguine spits at the table. The grip of his hands on the table edge causes cracks to form across the surface. “Here I was thinkin’ it’d be good for all of us to hang out more! Excuse the _fuck _out of me! This is out of left field!”

“You’ve developed a _connection_… To the mortal. The past _consumer. _The _former Dragonborn _and _Dragonborn again._” More and more tendrils of shadow crawl out of the darkness swirling beneath Hermaeus Mora’s single eye. Sullivan’s brows furrow and he makes to conjure a greatsword in advance, but Sanguine throws a hand out to stop him. He bows his head and steps back while Lord Mora _laughs _and continues. “_Wise _choice, Lord of Debauchery…”

“Hermaeus Mora witnessed the events that unfolded at the Throat of the World.” Nocturnal states. “Sanguine’s allowed a connection to form between the Dragonborn Kara and himself. She reversed the magic he used to save her mortal body. The magic returning—All that _power_—It led you to her, didn’t it? You knew something was wrong and projected a manifestation of yourself unto Mundus.”

“_Maybe I did! _Maybe I _went to find her. _Maybe I popped outta Oblivion in a manifestation to check in and say _hi_.” Sanguine loses his patience. It is visible in the way his Daedric manifestation shudders and cracks form across the surface of his obsidian skin, threatening to unleash a torrent of amorphous, sanguine-red liquid out from underneath. “_Does it matter? No. Leave her out of this_. Nocturnal. Mora. I won’t repeat myself.”

“You can and _will _if I ask_, _Sanguine. You are _far _from in charge here. Lord Jyggalag, for all intents and purposes: this is a gathering of Princes to discuss the negotiation of the _zaam mey tiid’s _soul, the ownership, and hypothetical transfer. I would like to make a joint-offer with Hermaeus Mora.” Nocturnal sits up in her seat and her birds dissipate into fading shadows. She gestures for the calcified eye of the Prince of Knowledge to float to her side. The Prince of Shadows, Darkness, and Mystery hums thoughtfully; when Nocturnal speaks every word directs at Sanguine despite the Prince staring at Jyggalag. “I understand the history behind the _zaam mey tiid _is complex. The soul’s power is grand, and we cannot _simply _allow it to reside with a Prince if the individual in question is prone to power-struggle.”

“My beautiful night Prince, that statement applies to all Daedra in existence.” Clavicus Vile huffs and shakes his head.

“_Almost_ all Daedra. Do not think the likes of Jyggalag and Hermaeus Mora to be included in our riveting flaws, Clavicus. Jyggalag is a Prince of Order. As for Hermaeus Mora,” Nocturnal’s pitch-black eyes flutter and hold every inch of a smug ego her voice betrays. “Our _good friend _Mora here is the Prince of Knowledge. He possesses both the First Dragonborn,” a wave of her hand at Miraak’s silent form, “And _all _of Miraak’s dragons. I hereby vote that the exchange of the _zaam mey tiid _goes to Hermaeus Mora. He has demonstrated his ability to restrain the lust for power regardless of the _dragon souls _in his possession. Another one added to the mix will not change that.”

“This is not a common dragon, Prince Nocturnal. Prince Hermaeus Mora.” Jyggalag lifts his head up. Light shimmers across the faceted surface of his helm. “This is the _zaam mey tiid._”

“And this is the _First Dragonborn,_” Hermaeus’ voice _snaps _in irritation. A dark tendril shoves Miraak forward and the First Dragonborn obediently stands at the ready. “Who… is _more _than capable of _bending wills…_ to serve me.”

“Dragonborn Miraak, first of your kin.” Jyggalag addresses the man without an ounce of emotion in his voice. “Do you possess the power to force a dragon into submission?”

“I do.” The Dragonborn answers solemnly.

“Prince Hermaeus Mora. Prince Nocturnal. I can not consider this proposition without a demonstration of Miraak’s skills. But even if he is capable,” The Prince of Order states, “the _zaam mey tiid _is an ancient dragon that predates Miraak’s birth on Mundus. It is the pact passed unto Sheogorath at the end of the last Greymarch that allows the _zaam mey tiid _to retain control over the thu’um in their possession. Transferring ownership of the soul entails the dissolution of that pact. It will free the dragon’s _essence_.”

“Yes, yes, the dragon’s _voice_, of course,” Nocturnal raises a brow. “Because that remains a _problem_, doesn’t it? That nasty _thu’um _of theirs. But what if I said there’s a way to mitigate it? To block the soul from using it, Prince Jyggalag? To steal it away? Bury it out of sight? Never to fear it again?”

“That is a concept that is not easy to unlock.” The Prince of Order considers the idea in his head. He slowly nods. “If possible—It would force the _zaam mey tiid _to yield to the strength of a common dragon. Miraak would be capable of bending the will of the _zaam mey tiid_ and forcing compliance. How do you propose to accomplish this, Nocturnal?”

Lady Luck grins. She stretches and calls a flock of ravens to swarm her from thin air. They nestle against her form and she laughs and falls into the flurry of feathers. “Prince Jyggalag! You must _understand _I am a Prince of Mystery! Who am I if I give the tale away? No, no—Rest assured, my _Nightingales_ have it under control. I will remove the _zaam mey tiid_’s thu’um and Hermaeus Mora’s champion will dominate and force the soul to submit to Hermaeus Mora. Will that suffice, Prince of Order? Will that prove Hermaeus Mora is capable of keeping the _zaam mey tiid _in control?”

Sullivan frowns. He notes his Lord keeps quiet, sunken into his seat. Sanguine does not appear the lively, humored Daedric Prince known for housing spectacular parties and riveting orgies. Lord Sanguine is _thinking_, but thinking of _what _is unknown to the butler. Sullivan bites his lip and holds back comment when Lord Jyggalag nods.

“It will do.”

“…_Excellent… Miraak… _To me, my Champion… To Apocrypha.” Hermaeus Mora’s form dissipates into a sea of blackness. Miraak’s face remains hidden by his mask, but the First Dragonborn looks around the room one last time before following his master into the portal to Apocrypha.

“You’re a _bitch_, Nocturnal.” Sanguine snaps. He stands and makes for the door with Sullivan on his heels, but neither of the two say anything until Sanguine reaches a glowing Oblivion Gate that reeks of mead, fireflies, and skooma. He disappears into it without hesitation. Sullivan begins to climb through, but a fur-covered hand rips him out and holds him up by the arm. The butler stares into the deadly gaze of _Hircine_.

“Tell Sanguine the _mutt _intends to pay him a visit. Clavicus, too.” The Prince of the Hunt whispers the command and drops Sullivan. Hircine is tailed by his werewolves as they walk to a different gate, one where the smell of blood is poignant and screams of prey and predator abundant.

Sullivan exhales sharply and smooths his robes. “…Of course, Lord Hircine, I am _most pleased _to share the news with Lord Sanguine. Absolutely _delighted _to assist.”

When he finally returns to the Myriad Realms of Revelry, Sullivan finds that his lord is not at any of the great feasting halls scattered across the plane. He checks the bedchamber and finds that, though three Dremoras and a gleeful elven woman have put it to use, there is no Sanguine present. It takes time to wander the decadent halls and check each drug or sex frenzy in the rooms for his lordship.

He finds Sanguine outside, a bottle of wine in one hand. The Daedric Prince stands and overlooks a stretch of wilderness; a small stream trickles down one side while torch bugs and fireflies float lazily beneath a purple sky. Sullivan strides up to his Lord’s side and pauses. “My Lord, Lord Hircine insists on attending an upcoming party with the company of Lord Vile.”

“Guess he figured it out too, huh?” Sanguine grits his teeth.

“Pardon, my Lord?” Sullivan tilts his head to one side.

The Daedric Prince glances at him, smiles wickedly, and pats the butler’s head. “Nocturnal and Hermaeus Mora outmatch each of us individually. We don’t have a choice but to get with making truces and fucking around. _Cooperating. _Even if its with that mutt. Oblivion, Hircine doesn’t even _like _booze.”

“A play of politics.” Sullivan voices quietly. His brows furrow.

Sanguine laughs. “Yeah, and making it a pain in the ass too. I was hoping you’d get summoned again, go to Mundus, _something_ to tell Kara to knock it the fuck off and _remember me. _But now there’s other problems.”

“Problems of what sort, sir? What can I assist you with, my Lord?” Sullivan frowns. He wants to _serve. _He wants, more than anything, to quench every single desire, want, and need of Lord Sanguine.

“Nocturnal’s Nightingales are in play. Mercer Frey and Karliah. Lady Luck’s betting on her Daedric artifact to steal Zaammeytiid’s thu’um.” Sanguine rubs the back of his head and grimaces. “The Skeleton Key… It can probably do that. It’ll strip Zaammeytiid of any other _dov _left in them while they’re in that indulgent form. Miraak will bend their will in a single shout. It’s a ploy to make Jyggalag approve the transfer of ownership of Zaammeytiid’s soul from Sheogorath to Mora.”

“Is that not what we want, my Lord? To strip Sheogorath of power? To force him to kneel and eliminate him from Oblivion and Mundus alike?” Sullivan blinks.

“We do. But,” Sanguine huffs and crosses his arms. Part of his wine spills from its bottle but the Daedra doesn’t acknowledge it. “Not like _this_. Something’s off, and it ain’t the drinks. Hermaeus Mora must know a way for Nocturnal to keep the thu’um if she’s agreed to back him on this. Fucking _Prince of Knowledge. _Prince of Know-It-All is more suitable.”

“I do agree, Lord Sanguine. Shall I send for a scribe to dictate the immediate proclamation of Prince of Know-It-All when Hermaeus Mora is mentioned?”

“Not yet, let’s keep that under wraps while Jyggalag’s open to discussing _terms and conditions_,” Sanguine rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Sullivan, I need you or I to contact Kara. Snap sense into her. Preferably me, and her, snapping sense is more than one way—But I’m not too _picky_. It’s time-sensitive. Next time you’re summoned—If you see Kara—Warn her about the _Nightingales_. Tell her to warn that useless _dov. _Even if Kara doesn’t recognize you—She’ll take the Nightingale thing seriously. She’s a smart cookie, takes initiative.”

“Is that why you fell in love with her, my Lord?”

“Well,” Sanguine turns back to face the stream. His eyes soften and he shakes his head with a smile. “It’s _one_ of the reasons.”


	23. (smut) ansilvund

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zaammeytiid and mercer travel the ancient nord tomb of ansilvund. the trip is as short as mercer claimed it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there's smut  
and its consensual but its also rough hate sex so yknow if thats not your cup of tea  
you can press ctrl+f 'Ansilvund goes quietly' to skip it and go straight to the tomb part!!
> 
> OTHER NOTE:  
the end is a bit dark  
read with care  
love u all

The snow falls gently the first day of travel. Aside from a brief skirmish with giant spiders, and a narrow escape from a herd of mammoths watched over by an aggressive giant, nothing of interest takes place. The horse Mercer loans them struggles to keep up with the guild master’s younger steed. Zaammeytiid decides to nickname the temporary horse _Horse the III _in hopes of bonding with the slower mare; it doesn’t work and by the tenth hour of riding, they are sick of Horse III’s piss-poor stamina and stubbornness to go _slower _than anything they ask of it. They contemplate stealing a horse on the ride north, but Mercer’s stern demeanor keeps their attitude in check.

Not that much attitude remains. There’s only bare wisps of the rage of a _dov _in their soul. Most of the emotion that stakes out their form is _krosis_, sorrow, and the sting of acceptance. They won’t shy from the truth; they have destroyed any hint of trust in their… _friendship _with Brynjolf. The morning Brynjolf left with four other Thieves Guild members, Kara included, they ran into the man.

He spoke only a sentence to them that morning, “Out of the way, Sahkriimir.”

_The cycle is punishment. It fits. _The _dov _person clutches the reins of Horse the III tightly in their hands. _Besides—He is a joor. A joor that… should not be involved. It is better this way. I will accept my mistakes and the outcomes of it. And when Kara returns… I will tell her I am leaving the Guild. _

It was the only conclusion they could arrive at. There is no possible way to undo the past, to rewrite Time—save for their Lord Sheogorath—but their actions going forward must reflect their remorse. They are full of _krosis, _but they must accept it is of their own doing. They must take that anger and channel it into _mul, _into the strength they need to begin the dragon hunts. If dragons threaten the world—It is only _right _to see they are stopped; it is the only _hero _thing Zaammeytiid knows to do. They hope it is enough to demonstrate they have accountability. In the past, it would have been _preposterous _to consider—But it is not the past anymore.

_I will leave the Thieves Guild. I will hunt my kin. Until… Lord Sheogorath calls me to his side. Until I depart this world. That’s the joor equivalent of the ‘right’ thing to do. Right?_

“Sahkriimir! Your horse is slacking as much as you are. C’mon.” Mercer Frey’s voice cuts into their thoughts.

The second day of travel is harder.

The terrain devolves from snowy to rocky and what is initially tundra-like plains with occasional hot springs or marshes becomes a _mess _of cliff outcroppings and steep drops. Mercer Frey orders them to dismount and guide their horse by hand at one point; the old mare is not able to handle the terrain _and _carry a passenger on her back. Part of Zaammeytiid wonders how in Oblivion the mare is expected to make the return trip with loot on her saddle, but they dismiss the thought when Mercer begins making snippy comments. He’s not as harsh as they expect him to be but he isn’t a happy-go-lucky man either.

_Or a jester. _The thought stings.

Come evening, the snow picks up from soft flurries to horrid gales. The _dov _person and Mercer Frey are forced to take refuge in a cave just big enough to squeeze their horses into, with more room further back ten feet. The guild master grits his teeth the whole time he stacks small twigs, leaves, and tinder. He struggles to light the fire. After the third attempt, Zaammeytiid grows tired of being cold. “Move.”

“Don’t get sassy with your guild leader, Sahkriimar.” The man snaps back.

“I am trying to _help, joor,_” They inhale sharply and will their thoughts to calm. Mercer Frey crawls aside and Sahkriimar leans down to the sticks and tinder. They focus their thu’um, the essence of all that makes them a creature of the _lok_, and they breath a flame in a single whisper, _“Yol.”_

The fire comes to life. With tender nurturing and increasingly larger sticks and logs, the flames in the tiny fire pit eventually reach the duo’s small cave. The firepit is closest to the front of the cave, about eight feet from where the horses stand shivering in the cave’s entrance, and the smaller length of cave—nigh big enough for either to crouch—runs seven feet in a spectacularly asymmetrical formation. Though Zaammeytiid initially tries to keep from Mercer’s side, they find the call of the flames to frequently cause them to bump literal heads and shoulders with the man. Each time follows with a grimace, or _sincere apology_, or the _dov _person considering all the million ways to murder Mercer Frey and get away with it. It would be _so _easy…

“What did you and Brynjolf talk about the night before we left?” Mercer Frey tilts his head to one side. The Breton sits with his knees drawn up and his back to the cave wall. He eyes them carefully. “You two were shouting like no tomorrow.”

“I do not think it is wise to talk about him, guild master,” the _dov _person states with as much civility they can muster.

“Yeah? Well you and him got some explaining to do. Mucking about at that hour, trying to roar your asses off. Get a _room _next time_._” The guild master snaps in response. He ignores their glare and continues. “Now, Brynjolf’s off doing things he should be doing. I’m trying to bridge out here and help you. I can’t do that unless I _know what happened._”

They seethe. The anger lasts only a second before they will the _rahgot _to subside. It is _pahlok_ of them to respond in such a way when Mercer Frey might be the only individual in all of Skyrim to _deserve _the knowledge. He is the guild master; if he worries a personal affair might mess with two of his subordinates, he has every right to step in and review the situation. Zaammeytiid shuts their eyes and painfully says, “I violated Brynjolf’s privacy, _guild master. _I said many disgusting things to the _joor_. I threatened to shout him into submission if he did not _go away. _I did shout him, guild master, both before and during the times I was present in the Thieves Guild. We never had a _thing_.” All the words topple out.

Mercer Frey is not a man of sympathy. “No _shit_. But _clearly _some kind of thing was going on because you and him got into a tussle the night before both you leave.”

Heat creeps into their cheeks. They shut their eyes and turn their head away, but they know the man can see them anyways. “…That… doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Would you say he’d go looking for you if you fell off the face of the world?” Mercer Frey’s words make them pause.

Their eyes dim. “…I do not know. Brynjolf is a stubborn _joor_. But I hurt him greatly.”

“Well, take it from a guy like _me, _someone who has known Brynjolf since he was a goddamn orphan on the streets of Riften: he wouldn’t.” The man’s gaze is cold when Zaammeytiid looks over. Mercer Frey reaches out and puts a hand on their shoulder. “I’m not saying that to be _mean_, Sahkriimar. I’m telling you how it _is. _Brynjolf’s no sweetheart; he is what he is and that’s why he’s number two. The faster you accept that, the faster you move on. You understand, Dragonborn?”

Their eyes fall on the hand at their shoulder, “You are a strange man, guild master.”

“I’m _honest._” Mercer Frey grunts. “I think you deserve to have people who are honest to you around. Lies lead to rubble.”

It’s a fair statement. They pause to consider it. “…That is true.”

“To live in this world, you got to make do with what you got and what you are. What are you, Sahkriimar? You aware?” When they hesitate, Mercer’s eyes narrow and he hisses. “You’re the _Dragonborn. _Strongest warrior on this continent. You got the blessings of the _Divines _on your ass. The privilege of the _Voice. _Power and influence, you understand me? Power, influence… and beauty.”

The blush on their cheeks makes them stiffen. They stare when a hand rises to their face. 

“Tell me, Sahkriimar. You going to keep pining for a guy that’s already moved on to the next person? Or are you going to go for someone more _reliable?” _Mercer Frey’s gaze hardens. He shifts to move closer and they find their eyes trail up to stay locked on his.

“I want to move on. Past Brynjolf.” Zaammeytiid snaps.

“I can help you with that.” Mercer Frey’s offer is clear.

They swallow. Their mind is made up. They struggle to think clearly with his hand on their chin and his body so close. All they want is to be wrapped up in the strong arms of a salesman or a jester—But neither of those two will ever _be_. They need the physical contact, they want the physical touch, they _desperately lust _for something filling. They exhale sharply. “I want your help, Mercer Frey.”

“What do you want my help with? Tell me.” Mercer lays down and stares up at them.

“…With moving on. Past… Brynjolf.” Zaammeytiid speaks clearly, considering every word before deciding to add on, “With… _fulfillment.”_

“Then you do it.” His lips quirk upwards into a smirk, coy as it is inviting. He props himself up on his forearms and stares back at them. “Go on_._”

“Where do I start?” Zaammeytiid’s entire face radiates with heat. They stare at Mercer Frey. “Tell me! _I need it!”_

“Put me in your mouth.”

It’s awkward to crawl over him and move between his legs. Neither can fully undress from the cold, but Zaammeytiid unbuttons the man’s breeches and moves aside the lower half of his chest piece and leg guards to pull the pant down. Their hands reach and they hear the man’s throat rumble in approval when they take hold of him. The guild master’s eyes lock on them and they dip their head down to envelope him. Mercer hisses and sits up as far as the cave allows; his hands grab unto their hair and he pulls them to take more. They feel the organ touch the back of their throat and they gag, but their pride as a _dov _and the stubbornness as a _dov _keeps them there.

They begin to move on and off of him; saliva dribbles off their chin and unto the cold ground while they slurp him. Their tongue struggles to move with him stretching their mouth and making their jaw ache. He doesn’t mind; the man’s smirk deepens and he traces circles in their hair. It’s nothing like Brynjolf’s gentle touches. Mercer is a _very_ different man. As they struggle to keep up the pace he finally grunts and pushes them off.

“That’s enough,” the man grits his teeth. “You know _nothing _about pleasing this,” he grabs himself and stroke the length. “Not with your _mouth._”

“I don’t do everything with my _mouth_. You taste like _shit_, for the record,” Zaammeytiid’s will to remain level-headed dissipates briefly. “What kind of advice is _put me in your mouth?_”

Mercer laughs. It’s an empty sound. “You don’t want my help? Fine.”

“I didn’t say that,” they growl. “Lay down, _joor_.”

“Don’t order your guild master around.”

“_Please _lay down,” they are getting frustrated and impatient. There’s a tight coil in their abdomen that begs for release. They _want_ it. They _need_ it. They _crave_ it. They _desire_ it. When Mercer Frey lays back on the floor of the cave, they climb unto him _immediately_ and begin to mess with their armor and slacks. Cold bites their bare skin but they manage to pull their clothes down far enough to make everything work. They use a hand to direct the man in, but his hand grabs their own and he huffs while they scowl. “I’m _working_ on it!”

“Your hands and knees. I don’t trust you to know how that works, either.” Mercer Frey snorts.

“Fuck you.” Their civility is gone. They shift positions with a fire in their belly. It’s cold and cramped and they growl at him to hurry up. There’s no affection, only physical lust. The man rips their breeches down to their mid-thighs and fondles their rear with both hands.

He squeezes them tightly and hisses. “Every man in the cistern wants _this_. But you aren’t pleasuring them, are you?”

“Why in Oblivion would I touch _them?” _The _dov _person snarls.

“Tell me, Sahkriimar,” He leans over them and reaches for their chest. His hands skirt their chestpiece and loosen the clasps enough to slip beneath to their blouse and grab at everything in reach. They groan when his fingers pinch and grip their breasts. Mercer Frey hisses in satisfaction at the noises. He leans to their ear and snaps, “Tell me what you want right now? Tell me _who _you want right now? Tell me who is going to make you _howl?_”

“You,” they spit at the cave floor. Mercer’s hands squeeze their breasts and Zaammeytiid hisses and writhes, struggling in vain to get the damn man inside them before they belt out curses. “You are! You _fucking_ _joor! _You! Mercer Frey! Have me! _Take me already!_”

The man’s growl is deep as his arms wrap around their abdomen and pull them over him. He enters them in one agonizingly slow motion. It’s on purpose; they can see his smirk when they look over their shoulders. It lasts only a brief second before Mercer Frey growls and rams into them. The man rolls his hips into theirs and their knees struggle to stay upright while his hands continue to dig into their hips. His pelvis ricochets off their hips and they hiss and snarl at the feeling. It’s not like Sky Haven Temple, where Cicero lovingly worshipped their body and all they were, but rather raw, physical stimulation spurring Mercer on. He doesn’t compliment them or gaze with wanting eyes and sweet smiles. He bucks into them and pushes them from the position they began with to a mess of limbs on the floor; their legs can’t hold them up from the force of his thrusts and his body weight.

It’s freezing cold. They struggle not to moan when the guild master begins to rock into their body and smack his skin on their hips. They feel their muscles stretch and clamp in effort to accommodate him.

“Tell me! Tell me who you’re _fucking, _who you spread your legs for, Sahkriimar!” The guild master spits the words. He shoves his groin into their rear and pushes them against the stone floor.

Their mouth begins to hang open and their breaths become shorter. They struggle to think let alone answer as the name comes in a flurry of gasps. “Mercer—Mercer! _Mercer Frey!”_

His roars and shouts increase to match their groans and snarls. When he grabs their hair and pulls backward, they arch their back and howl with a need to finish copulating. Mercer pounds them into the cave floor; they feel rocks and gravel dig and cut into their skin as the man becomes less controlled and more frenzied. He wraps his arms around their torso and rolls himself into them in a cacophony of their screeches and bellows. He rumbles in fury and tightens his grip on their body beneath his. It’s the precipice for Zaammeytiid; the feeling in their abdomen snaps and their orgasm arrives in waves of physical stimulation that has them seeing white and screaming Brynjolf’s name.

With a final wave of thrusts, Mercer orgasms and pumps himself dry. They pant and catch their breath on the ground while he pulls out and spits the words bitterly, “Can’t let him go, can you?”

“What did you say to me, _joor_?” Zaammeytiid looks over their shoulder and hisses at the man. They fumble to clean themself up and right their breeches while Mercer does the same. Neither speak again until their clothes and armor is back in place. An unspoken animosity lingers and they refuse to budge on their glare at their soon-to-be former guild master.

“You said Brynjolf’s name.” Mercer Frey grits his teeth. “You can’t let the man_ go._”

A different kind of heat creeps into their face. They stare daggers. “I’ll move on.”

“Sure.”

“You aren’t very helpful.” The _dov _person snaps. “You have a bigger dick than brains, _mey_.”

“It had you screaming beneath me,” Mercer crosses his arms and hisses.

“The only good thing it did was make me orgasm. Is that your only talent? You sleep your way to the top?” Their silver eyes narrow in aggravation. “_Beyn, mey joor. _Pitiful.”

The rest of the trip to Ansilvund goes quietly. They wouldn’t repeat the act regardless of how they enjoyed it, but they’re glad to have an outlet for their anger and frustration, and they are more than glad that Mercer Frey talks a lot _less _the final day of travel. The site of the ancient Nord tomb is nowhere near as grand and glorious as the tombs they and Kara visited in the previous universe cycle. There is no great outside arches, no word walls or monuments, only the entrance to a carved stone staircase leading into the ground. Mercer directs Zaammeytiid to tie their old mare in a thicket of trees along with Mercer’s steed. When the guild master is satisfied the horses are safe and have some shelter from the weather, they follow him into the tomb.

It’s less magnificent than they thought. The site is an old excavation of an even older ruin. Evidence of a previous individual’s attempts to clear out the tomb remain; corpses of fallen adventurers, tomb robbers, and what appears to be a Redguard mage stick revolting, putrid scents on both thieves. Undead Nordic followers of the dragon priests and _dov_, Draugr, come to life when the two finally access a set of spiraling stairs to the lower levels of the tomb. Zaammeytiid becomes grateful to have a dagger on hand when they become forced to fight close-combat with the undead.

“_Beyn, krii zol viir diil! Dal qoth fus dur!” _They let their anger out in and _stab, stab, stab _each and every undead that dares to look at them the wrong way. The Draugr sometimes hesitate at the language; they clearly _know _something is off with the individual but the magic that keeps them undead and compliant renders their will and mind irrelevant.

Each Draugr corpse takes them further into the crypt.

“The stench in here… It smells of death,” Mercer remarks at one point, almost admiringly. “Be on your guard.”

“I don’t need advice, _joor_,” the _dov _person snaps. They ignore the man’s laughter when they set off a spike trip and narrowly weave to the side before three steel spikes impale the spot they were standing at. They growl and seethe in anger. _“Beyn, beyn, beyn! _I will rip this place apart! Burn it to the ground!_”_

“If you didn’t have a temper you might be a worthwhile asset,” Mercer snaps and gestures for them to catch up where he strides forward, an enchanted blade of dark ebony-like material in his hand. It doesn’t pass them how he holds the blade with utmost precision and skill. He’s a talented and dangerous man to cross paths with—unless one is a _dov _that can force men to kneel and swear allegiance to them.

The _gol hah _shout lingers on their lips each step they take.

When the duo comes to a long hall, complete with ornate wall carvings and a puzzle door at the end, Mercer holds up a hand to halt Zaammeytiid’s progress. It takes painstakingly-long minutes for the man to pick the door. It’s evident by that point the situation is no longer a mere _grab loot and run _heist, but a deeper excursion into the depths of the Nord tomb. All Zaammeytiid can think is, _No wonder the joor needs help. _

Being angry does so much for them. It keeps their mind off other topics, off of ginger-haired men and jesters in motley, it keeps their blood pumping and a boiling fury beneath the surface of their skin if they need it. It comes in handy when a Draugr in full plate armor bursts from a stone sarcophagus, stands, and surges toward them with a speed they don’t expect. The undead monster lifts two ebony blades and brings both down on them while they howl in surprise. They throw themself back and scream the shout, _“Tiid klo ul!” _

It’s been a long time—ironically—since they used the shout to Slow Time. They take the whole sixteen seconds to furiously ready their dagger. The second time resumes, they cut into the Draugr in endless blows and violent fillets of the throat. They don’t stop until their armor and clothes are drenched in undead gore and guts and flesh. They meet Mercer Frey’s gaze with a searing grin, every bit as brutal as the true _dov _they are.

“Your Voice,” the man hisses. “Can _stop time?_”

“Slow it, _joor_. Humble yourself. It is a _mul _you can never achieve. Not even the monks on _zok revak strunmah _can stop a _dov _in full fury. _Thu’um los rii neh viir, nahl zii los mul!_” They speak the words of their kin in an unquenchable thirst to embrace the violence and bloodlust that ravages their soul. They can restrain themself, but the _need _and _want _lingers in the form of shaking hands and chatterng teeth. “We move on, _beyn_!”

“_I _give the orders, Sahkriimar.” Mercer Frey snaps. “Don’t forget that.”

_Another _damn puzzle hall greets the two. Zaammeytiid is sick and tired of trekking after a Guild Master they don’t intend to follow into Oblivion. It irks them he takes their time for granted. They yearn to cut his throat and be done with it all—But they won’t. They have restraint. They have _Order. _They are _dov_, but they are also more than _dov. _They are the one who was once the Champion of Lord Jyggalag, herald of Order and Logic. Their pact lingers even if their soul belongs to Lord Sheogorath. _They will have Order. They will not break. They will not repeat the night of Grelod the Kind. _But they want to. But they want to. But they _need _to.

They stand close to Mercer’s back and peer over his shoulder as he picks the puzzle door. The door bears three strange sliding circles that display different runes and sigils across them. Normally, they know a person must possess a matching claw object and slide the circles to display the corresponding symbols found on the claw’s talons. Mercer Frey does not pick the lock with it; he uses a strange key-like device with a door-knob on one end and an ancient, antique key-prong on the other. It is vaguely familiar, but they cannot make out where they have seen it before. The man works quickly on the look, in the slot where the matching claw would normally go. To their surprise—It opens.

“It’s quaint—One of those old, infamous Nordic puzzle doors. Without the matching claw they’re normally impossible to open. Fortunately, these doors have a _weakness _if you know how to exploit it,” Mercer snorts and straightens upright. “I’d say it’s _simple _but you clearly don’t understand a word I’m talking about.”

_“Mey joor, _I come from an era you cannot hope to understand.” Zaammeytiid _hisses _the words. “I flew the skies before these doors were built!”

“I’m sure,” Mercer Frey steps aside. “Now let’s get moving.”

“…Why me?” They pause and stare at him. The man’s eyes are cold. “Why make me go first, _joor?_”

“Have you not heard the expression _ladies first?_” He snaps.

“I am not a woman.” The _dov _grits their teeth. “Go.”

“Don’t tell your _guild master _what to do. _Move._” Mercer’s voice holds malice and it makes them stop and stiffen.

They want to curse, to rant, and to rave. But they hold their tongue. They look forward and inhale a deep breath then let out the shout, _“Yol toor shul!” _

If any Draugr planned to ambush them—They aren’t anymore. They grin with glee at the sight of multiple Draugr corpses slumped over open sarcophagi, burning hopelessly and marking the coffins as their final resting place. They have no pity for the undead Nords. They know in life the people chose to embrace the violent tyranny of their kin. They enter the tall chamber and look up. To their surprise, they see cracks where snow occasionally trickles in from outside. It is almost frightening to consider how far underground they are. As they begin to poke around and rummage through coffins and urns for gemstones and soul gems, they hear Mercer Frey mumble to himself.

Zaammeytiid’s brows rise. They look over at the man and snap. “Out with it, _joor_. Do not tiptoe around a _dov_.”

The guild master pauses. His eyes narrow. “I’ve had enough with your sass.”

“I don’t intend to stay in your band of _meyye _much longer. You’ll be done with me the day after we return to Riften.” They grit their teeth.

“No, no. I won’t.” Mercer Frey snorts. “I’ll be done with you a lot quicker than that. This place is acceptable.”

_“Gol hah,” _It only takes a second to shout the words and force the guild master to freeze in place. They laugh heartily; it is the best they have felt in _days _and they assume the feeling can only rise from there. Zaammeytiid cracks their neck and unsheathes their dagger. It feels cool to the touch and they linger in the feeling of its grip against their fingers as they stride up to Mercer Frey and bark the command. _“Kneel.” _

Their body locks in place when an arrow hits them in the abdomen. They fall backward with a crash and feel warm blood start to spill. They can only stare upward; they cannot move their limbs nor eyes. Their breathing slows and they find the world suddenly prowls forward at a sluggish rate, save for the sound of footsteps. In their peripheral, they can make out an invisible _shape _suddenly take on the form of a dark mass. Another individual steps to their side and peers over them, entering their line of vision. The woman is a dunmer with dark red-brown hair hidden under a Thieves Guild hood much like their own.

Her gaze holds pity. “I wish it was not this way.”

Zaammeytiid cannot acknowledge the words, nor scream in pain when the woman rips the arrow from their body. They cannot resist when the lady pulls out manacles and rips their hands behind them, locking them in a set of cuffs. They cannot thrash or roar or snarl when the dunmer gags them not once but _twice. _They cannot even glare when she pats them down and removes their dagger and two other concealed knives. By the time their shout wears off on Mercer Frey, they are bound and gagged against a stone pillar; great chains wrap around them and keep them standing in spite of their body no longer possessing control of itself.

Mercer Frey gasps and heaves when the shout wears off. He topples over but catches himself before hitting the ground. He looks up, sees them, and begins to _laugh_. “Well, I’ll be. Karliah. You really came through for me, didn’t you?”

“It is Lady Nocturnal’s will. The conditions she presented to renew her favor, Frey. Do not think I am soft for the man who murdered Gallus.” The dunmer’s response is curt and cold.

“Uh-huh. Glad we got a chance to play partners together again. Here I was thinking you wanted to shoot me in the face. You’re a _real _lifesaver,” Mercer stands and sheathes his greatsword. He strides to Zaammeytiid’s form and grins wickedly. “Look at _this_. Not so tough on the ground, are you? They say there’s a shout that can force dragons to land. This isn’t _the _same, but I like to think you’ll experience the same helplessness. Karliah!” Mercer looks over his shoulder where the dunmer opens a satchel around her shoulder. “How long does this poison last?”

“Twenty-four hours. It took me a year to brew, Frey.” Karliah doesn’t offer him a passing glance.

Mercer shakes his head and smiles. “Oh, _boy, _won’t this be a fun time? Me, you, Karliah…” His eyes return to Zaammeytiid. They can’t even glare. “You were smart back there, Sahkriimar. Or should I say the _zaam mey tiid? _Lady Nocturnal got a strange name for you. You know her?”

They can’t shake their head no. They can’t hiss and spit at his feet. They can’t do anything.

He pats their shoulder and grins. “Lady Luck. The patron of our rag-tag team of _Nightingales, _sworn sentries to… Well. You won’t need that information. The important thing is that _we know_, _zaam mey tiid. _Me and Karliah here are… a unique duo.”

“Your arrogance will be the end of you.” Karliah bows her head where she stands. “Do not forget the past cycle.”

“What, where I murder Gallus _again _and you run around pretending to outsmart me while our Lady Nocturnal laughs in the background? Bunch of _shit_, Karliah. You know it. Let me enjoy my life how I am _now_. It isn’t every day I get to hold hands with you and murder a Dragonborn. _Normally, _you and Brynjolf face off with the Dragonborn against me after I find the... Nevermind, doesn't matter.”

“The Skeleton Key.” Karliah pulls out multiple health potions and walks to Zaammeytiid’s side. The dunmer’s brows furrow. She hands a potion to Mercer when he joins her side and admires the two’s prize.

“Think this’ll work?” Mercer speaks as he pulls the very key that picked the lock of the puzzle door from a pouch at his waist. He turns the bronze-colored key over in his hands and smiles at it. From the angle, their peripheral makes out swirling, glowing patterns of teal hues on the knobbed end.

“Lady Nocturnal said. Thus, it is so,” Karliah averts her gaze. “…If it becomes bloody… I have health potions.”

“The key unlocks metaphysical barriers. _Metaphysical, _not physical. Karliah.” Mercer snatches a health potion and shoves it in his pocket. He looks at Zaammeytiid and smiles. “Do you know about it, Dragonborn? The Skeleton Key?”

“We shouldn’t tell—”

“They won’t leave this room alive.” The man is calm and collected, though his vanity and confidence seeps through. “The Skeleton Key is an artifact created by Lady Nocturnal. _Lady Luck. _Some say its just good as an unbreakable lockpick, but I’ve grown fond of it in other ways. You ever consider how our brains work? How us _disgusting joorre _think and feel and see, Dragonborn? _Zaammeytiid? _We learn. We _can _learn. We aren’t chained to your kind’s bloodlust. The Skeleton Key… It allows _disgusting joorre _like Karliah and myself to _open _the metaphysical barriers of our mind. No, not just that—Of our _soul_.”

He sounds fanatical in the words, thoroughly emboldened by the mere act of speaking them. Mercer leans forward into their field of vision and takes care to ensure they see the smile on his lips. “I would never get to know what it’s like, huh? To _shout _like a dragon? To _roar _like the sky? To use a _Voice_ so pure and powerful that Time slows to it? Let me tell you a secret: it’s possible. I’m going to show you how _wrong _you are.”

They can’t widen their eyes.

The man nods at Karliah; the dunmer closes her eyes and looks at the ground. “Lady Nocturnal… We come before you now… Sworn servants to the shadows, Nightingales of your Twilight Sepulcher… We ask you for your blessing… We seek to carry out your will… We pray for your joy at the offering of this _dov’s_ thu’um, for as we walk in shadows you extend your hands and enshroud this creature in darkness…”

Mercer Frey jams the Skeleton Key into their throat. They don’t feel the blood, but in their head they hear the screaming.


	24. how's my favorite dragonborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the group doesn't find karliah in winterhold, but a group of dragons finds kara and co. on the trek home.

“Is there any _real _reason to keep her alive?” Niruin’s voice wafts through the group as their horses trudge onwards en route to Riften. The bosmer looks annoyed; when Kara looks back, she can’t help but laugh at how annoyed he is to sit with the group’s Nord captive on a horse.

“Karliah wasn’t in Winterhold. Mercer will know what to do with this one.” Brynjolf answers from the head of the pack. He stares forward as the black steed continues trotting along the road.

“_Not to mention,” _Vex cuts off Niruin the second the bosmer begins to speak again. “We need to learn why in Oblivion this chick’s Dremora knows Kara’s name.”

Kara grimaces. She hates to consider the possibility that Vex and Brynjolf have been right over the course of the trip, that perhaps she _does _need her head put on straight. Her brown eyes float to the sky and she smiles at soft snowflakes dancing their way to the ground. “If it _is _really the same Dremora that I _hypothetically _summoned to help way back—Then I need to ask the Daedra some questions.”

“Besides, lad, killing isn’t in our agenda. Not unless necessary.” Brynjolf adds.

The past weeks in the trip go smoothly, save for Ninruin’s constant complaints of the cold. Since departing Riften, the group spends half a week making the hike to Winterhold. Tracking down Karliah’s hideout is _immensely_ easy after Rune successfully stakes out a thief attempting to pickpocket the Jarl’s front door. Though the ensuing fight is tough, the group—minus Vex—sustain minor injuries. That is the turning point in intricacies unraveled by the trip. One of the Thieves is a mage, not a rogue, and the mage’s ability to conjure a Dremora multiple times nearly leads to Brynjolf losing his head and Rune an arm. But the Dremora _knows _her. The Dremora _knows _her name. The Dremora calls her _Lady _Kara. The Dremora _apologizes_.

Kara doesn’t know a Dremora can apologize, not until then.

The group takes the mage woman captive. She’s a Nord, one with a rounded mole on the right side of her head and ginger hair that is thick and stout. The woman offers nothing but glares the remaining days spent in Winterhold. Vex laughs with Niruin over how much the woman looks like Brynjolf, to the point even the Thieves Guild’s second head has to interject and tell the two to put a lid on it. But the mage woman reveals nothing about Karliah during captivity; even when threatened with Brynjolf’s ebony blades, the woman insists she has never seen the traitor in her life. She also claims not to know why a Dremora called from the expanse of Oblivion knows Kara’s name.

“I’m sick of the snow.” Niruin voices the thoughts of everyone in the party when, come day twenty-two, they are all forced to hunker down in a small town at the border of Winterhold and Eastmarch. A lack of gold forces the group to rent one larger room opposed to individual rooms for the lot. Thieves take turns sleeping on the cot while two always remain awake and alert to keep eyes on the prisoner.

Kara grimaces when Rune drags her from the warm bed to take over guard duty. She sits on a chair near the ginger-haired mage and eyes the woman carefully. “You really do look like Brynjolf.”

“I’m sure she’s sick of hearing it, lass.” Brynjolf’s equally sleep-deprived demeanor shows when he leans against the wall and yawns. He looks weary; heavy bags hang under his eyes and a frown pulls at his lips. “What’s your name, mage?”

“Like I’d tell _you_.” The woman hisses. She has blue eyes, far from Brynjolf’s own hazel-brown ones, but Kara peers at the lady curiously all the same.

“You ought to.” Brynjolf cocks his head to one side and grimaces. “Your company’s dead, lass. You’re going to Riften, to be questioned by our guild master. Might as well not make it harder on yourself.”

“You _murdered them all,_” The woman sounds like she’s in her early forties, or late thirties. She grits her teeth and spits at Brynjolf’s feet. “Talos should have your head! Disgusting!”

Kara shrugs when Brynjolf looks at her. The Dragonborn rubs her eyes and looks to the side, where Vex’s dozing form is curled up in a sleeping roll given Niruin and Rune hog the only bed. “…You are a Nord, right? Right. I see it in your face.”

_“Half-Nord. _My mother a Nord, father an Altmer.” The mage corrects; the woman shakes her head and her hair parts enough to reveal slightly pointed ears hidden in the red-brown locks.

“But you’re a _Nord. _You know about the Legend of the Dragonborn?” Kara’s voice plays into a delightful, alluring tone. She grins ear-to-ear when the mage continues to stare at her. The woman moves from her chair to the floor so she can sit next to the ginger-haired mage. Brynjolf watches both women with a hint of curiosity behind his raised brow, but Kara heeds him little attention. She points to herself and smiles confidently. “I’m Dragonborn.”

The captive bursts out in laughter.

“I am serious!” Kara snaps. She stands and stares at the mage on the ground. “You do not believe me? _Feim!” _

It’s a single word, the _dov _tongue for ‘fade,’ but it does the trick. For a short, _short _time Kara’s entire body flickers out of view and becomes a nigh-transparent shape against the background. The feel of the Void mixing with her thu’um is uncomfortable and chills her to the bone; the Dragonborn gasps and breaths deeply when her body takes on a physical form on Mundus once again. Brynjolf eyes her lazily while the ginger-haired mage on the ground clams up and sputters. “_Y—You?” _

“I was not lying, _beyn_ you believed such.” Kara takes a seat and grimaces. She pulls her hood up but it offers little warmth. “If you don’t tell us your name then I am calling you Mage.”

“…Then call me Mage. Dragonborn.” Mage averts her gaze. She’s conflicted.

“So, Mage, lass, you mind sharing how your summoned Daedra knew Dragonborn lass over here?” Brynjolf crosses his arms. He doesn’t look intimidating; Kara would never voice the thought but the man looks far closer to a large, muscular teddy bear than anything else at that moment.

Mage shakes her head. “I _told _you—Dragonborn, you and your—_Lad?_—I don’t know why! Talos help you, I speak only truth!”

“The dragon tongue defines truth as _vahzen._ I remember that from Sahkriimar, too.” Kara squints. She regrets saying the name of her former _dov_, she can see Brynjolf tense nearby. She clears her throat and changes the subject. “He called me _Lady Kara. _He _apologized _for fighting me. Look—Mage?”

“Mage.” Mage the mage affirms.

“Have you ever conjured a Dremora that apologizes? Or that—For the matter—Wears a _butler _suit?” The Dragonborn inquires with a firm frown. She keeps an eye out on Mage’s face for the slightest hint of a change in posture, expression, or demeanor. There’s nothing but confusion. “So that’s a no, clearly. Alright. What kind of mage are you, Mage? A conjurer, I take it?”

Mage nods. She’s slightly more relaxed, but whenever she looks at Brynjolf or sees the man shift she tenses again. “…A conjurer. I swear it by Talos. But I know a fraction of illusion magic. You must, or conjuration is too loud to not be noticed. Dragonborn,” the woman inhales. “Why are you with _thieves? _Is the Dragonborn not meant to be a _hero?_”

“I am a member of the Thieves Guild of Riften, Mage. Proud to call it a home.” Kara’s lips quirk upward. “That a problem, Mage?”

“No, no—Dragonborn—” The mage sputters in response.

“Good.” Brynjolf chuckles lightly.

“Hey, Brynjolf? Do you think we could have Mage here summon a Dremora?” Kara sits upright and huffs.

The man stares at her like she just declared her love of Alduin. He pushes himself up and tenses. “…Lass, repeat what you just said to _yourself _and get back to me on that.”

“I mean it—Look—Just—Hear me out. If we get everyone awake, we can have someone—probably Vex, knowing the lady—hold the Mage back, knife to a throat, something along those lines, while she uses her spell,” the Dragonborn runs a hand through her hair and shrugs. “…If we could get the butler Dremora back in here… I could ask him some questions. I need to ask him some questions. I think you know I do, too. I wouldn’t make an asinine request without reason, Brynjolf.” She huffs the last sentence.

The Nord pauses. “…Lass. That… That’s ludicrous.”

“Madness, yeah, I _know_, but I think we can manage it.”

“You’re waking them up. I’m taking the chair,” Brynjolf puts both hands on the back of her chair and Kara reluctantly moves to let him take it. The man flops into it and grimaces. “Have fun getting Vex outta that sleeping roll, lass.”

It’s not fun to get the white-haired Imperial woman up. Kara grits her teeth and stares at the woman while she remains tucked inside the roll. Vex’s exhausted eyes glare daggers at her. “Absolutely _not_.”

“Vex, please? For me?” Kara clasps her hands together and pleads the words. She frowns. “I need to know what’s going on with that weird Dremora! I don’t think I even know the spell, so, I _need _this mage’s help.”

“Kara, listen, I _really _like spending time with you and all, but this? This is _my _bedroll. That is keeping _me _warm in this arctic Oblivion and—You’re really gonna cry?” The woman grimaces and runs a head down her face. Vex huffs at the sight of Kara’s eyes becoming big, wide, and watchful. “Fine! Fine! Shit, don’t—_Do that_—Give me a moment. Oblivion, Kara, that is terrifying.”

“It’s a,” the Dragonborn taps her chin thoughtfully. “…A _Dunmer _thing, if you will.” _One that has zero to do with the fact I’m a creature of Oblivion, Vex. Nope._

Getting Rune and Niruin out of the actual bed is far easier. Kara gestures Vex to take one end while she mans the other and the two flip the mattress on end and send both men crashing to the ground. Rune hisses when his prized stone falls from his pocket; he crawls to grab it but Kara snatches it up and holds it overhead. Rune’s glare is lethal but Kara is immune; she laughs when he rises to his feet and attempts to grab her. She’s nimble; she dances around the man as he sleepily attempts to grab her and retrieve the damn rock. “Kara! _Kara!” _

“Yes, Rune?” The Dragonborn feels like a nimble _little shit_ and she’s happy with that. The thirty-one-year-old woman ducks and weaves around Brynjolf in his chair until Rune gives up and throws his hands in the air. Kara stops in place, stands, and smiles politely. “Look at that, you get to help me with an experiment. Funny how that goes. Niruin!” The woman turns her attention to the bosmer, who growls in response. “Good _morning_. Keep your aim on the mage. We’re doing _experiments _here.”

“What type of _experimenting _do you refer to, Dragonborn? Kara? I am not one to dilly-dally around men or women or any other gender if they don’t pipe my interest _immediately. _I have known everyone in this room too long to know I have zero desire to bed any of them. Except the prisoner,” Niruin yawns and rubs his eyes. “Who, at first glance, I _still _lack any desire to bed. No offense, Nord.”

“Half-Nord.” Mage’s eyes narrow.

“A half-Nord?” Vex stands and pulls out a dagger. This one is an enchanted steel one with a fair curve to the tip. The Imperial lady walks over to Mage and hauls her to her feet. “Alright, Kara. You really want to do… This? What is this, again?”

“Keep the knife to her neck. Lass there wants the mage to conjure a Dremora.” Brynjolf states dryly.

Vex’s eyes widen. “Kara… _Why?_”

“Just do it, Vex, like the rest of my ideas and thoughts haven’t been more atrociously terrible in comparison. This is _normal._” Kara holds Rune’s stone in one hand while she crosses the room to all five’s packs and digs out a restore magicka potion. She looks over her shoulder at Vex and Mage and holds the potion upright. “Will this be enough for a Dremora? More specifically, will this be enough for a Dremora and _only _a Dremora?”

“…It’ll do, yes. Dragonborn.” The mage nods.

“Good. If you said no, I might just call the whole thing off. Can’t waste too many of these things on you.” Kara tosses the potion at Vex. The Imperial hisses and barely manages to catch the glass vial in one hand. Kara grins. “Nice catch.”

“Here, little Vex, give it here,” Brynjolf leans and takes the potion. He uncaps it, sniffs it, and makes a face before handing it back to Vex.

Vex keeps one hand on her dagger at Mage’s throat, whereas she uses the other to lift the restore magicka potion to the mage’s lips and tilt it up. Mage makes a disgusted face and nearly retches at the flavor, but she consumes the entire vial’s contents and grits her teeth afterward. Mage’s eyes narrow. “A Dremora for the Dragonborn.”

Her hands, still bound behind her, crackle with conjuration magic. The woman stares forward and veins bulge from her head; Kara doesn’t care much on Mage once the woman speaks a circle of great violet light into being. Ungodly howls, screams, and a choir of the dying and the damned ripple across the sphere of purple magic as it expands in size and grows to take up a large chunk of the room. The threads separating Mundus from Oblivion briefly ensnare and a tall Dremora steps out of the light into the sphere of magic. It’s the same one; Kara’s eyes widen as she finds her gaze locked on a Dremora wearing a _butler’s uniform. _A shiver runs down her spine; she gets a vague hint of familiarity from the Oblivion denizen as his gaze lands on hers.

The Dremora begins to smile and he steps to her side immediately. She gawks at him when he bows. “_Lady Kara! _It is delightful to see you again! Naturally speaking, I cannot express the relief I feel to know you are alive!”

“By Oblivion.” Kara blurts out.

“Yes, yes, by Oblivion indeed! Naturally, Lord Sanguine and I have been _terribly_ worried over your safety and well-being! It is a shame Lord Sanguine is not here to see this joyous reunion but I will inform him of your whereabouts right away when I am dispelled!” The butler rattles off the words without a hint of anger or rage, nothing like any Dremora Kara can think of.

Brynjolf whistles where he sits. “Lass, your head’s not on right.”

“Thanks for the update.” Kara mumbles.

The butler snaps his head to look at the rest of the room. “Lady Kara, are these hostiles? It endeavors me to act in your best interest if you are being held _captive_—”

“I’m not being held hostage, Dremora! Shush!” Kara grits her teeth. Her carefree demeanor begins to crumble as she exhales and looks the butler up and down. “…Okay. Alright. So, Brynjolf, Vex—_Everyone_—You’re right. Clearly, Mister Dremora here knows me—”

“Sullivan.”

“Sullivan.” Kara stares. “…Sullivan the Dremora.”

“At your service, my Lady, yours and that of my summoner’s, Cadha!” The Daedra exclaims each word with visceral joy and enthusiasm. Brynjolf stiffens at the name.

“…Cadha’s a common name. Probably,” she hears Vex assure the second head. “It’s just—A coincidence. _Oblivion. _Don’t stress yourself out thinking ‘bout it.”

Mage, or _Cadha_, looks far from comfortable. In fact, the woman looks like anger wrapped into a ginger-haired mess. “I’m _Mage._”

“Yes, summoner Mage! Of course! It is my honor to address you as such!” The Dremora declares. He returns his gaze to Kara and the latter grimaces. “Lady Kara, are you in need of assistance? Your mood reflects—”

“Don’t tell me what I know, Dremora. Sullivan. Daedra.” Kara holds her head in her hands. “I… I need to ask you some questions. I know I’m not your _summoner_ but—But can you answer them? Please.”

“Lady Kara, I am under _strict _orders by my Lord to provide the full extent of my services as necessary,” Sullivan beams and straightens upright. “Naturally, answering questions falls in line with what I am capable of. I am also vested in the act of making tea, though I presently lack the tools required to do so.”

“No tea will, uh, be necessary.” The Dragonborn looks to the side. Her mind blanks and she opts for the most obvious question, the one that isn’t mortifying to consider speaking in front of her fellow thieves. “…So. You called me _Lady _Kara. Where do you know me from…?”

“The Myriad Realms of Revelry, my Lady, you are Lord Sanguine’s beloved.” The butler hums thoughtfully. “I understand you may not _remember _it as such but that problem is being addressed and has not gone unnoticed by either myself or my Lordship.”

Kara’s face is a brick of red. She squawks at the words and clenches her fists. She snaps her head at Vex, points at the Dremora, and shouts. _“I don’t know what’s wrong with him! _I’m not—I don’t have things going on—With a _hypothetical Daedra!_”

“Daedric Prince, Lady Kara. Sanguine is the Lord of Debauchery, the Prince of Hedonism, and the Pleaser of all Indulgences dark or light.” Sullivan’s voice is _so merry_. The Dremora looks from Kara to Vex and clears his throat. “It is in your best interest, _Vex, _to know that Lord Sanguine has no qualms with you and Lady Kara pursuing a relationship that extends beyond platonic companionship! My Lord is not a jealous Daedra—In fact—”

Brynjolf’s sharp whistle makes Vex shove Mage to Niruin. The Imperial woman’s face is crimson but she demonstrates no fear lurching forward and seizing Sullivan by his butler uniform. She pulls him to eye level and hisses viciously. “Don’t even _fucking _try to get started on what goes on with _us, _Daedra, I don’t give a rats ass if you’re—_This_—Kara’s and my business are our own! Or… Each others! Something, damnit!” Vex spits at the Dremora’s feet and shoves him backward.

Sullivan isn’t bothered. The Dremora smooths down his robes and clasps his hands behind his back. “Very well, Vex! I will cease further commentary on the matter of feelings between you and—”

“_Don’t kill him!_” Kara shouts and grabs the Imperial woman before Vex can gut the Daedra where he stands.

Vex squirms in the Dragonborn’s grasp and snarls. “You fuck! All of your kind! Evil, bloodthirsty, _nosy _shits!”

“A fair assessment of all Daedra but one lacking in the full spectrum of my kin’s cruelty. Lady Kara,” the words continue as if Vex never spoke at all; Sullivan remains unbothered and upbeat as he smiles brightly at the Dragonborn. “How may I assist you further, my Lady?”

“Vex, calm down! _Vex!”_ Kara hisses and clings to the Imperial lady for dear life. She can barely think let alone look back at the Dremora as she shouts at him. “What do you mean by _beloved?! _I don’t know any Sanguine! Prince or not—_I’m not in love with a Daedra!_”

“Contrarily, Lady Kara, following the second act of inter—”

“_Fus ro dah!” _Kara’s patience snaps and she shoves Vex aside before blasting the Dremora with the power of the shout. She ignores the crash of his body hitting the walls and prays the innkeeper doesn’t kick them all out as she stalks up to the butler’s form and stares down at him. He smiles politely and makes to stand but she shoves her boot on his chest and forces him down. “_That isn’t necessary to say, _Daedra.”

“Part of this is very funny,” Rune remarks offhandedly from the side. When Kara glares, he huffs. “You stole _my _rock!”

“It’s a _rock_, get over it!” Kara hisses. She snaps her head back to eye Sullivan and growls. “What was this about being concerned for my _well-being? _My well-being is fine, Daedra! Sullivan!”

“Well, yes, that is _currently _true but circumstances have changed, my Lady,” the Dremora carries on calmly in spite of a massive, bleeding gash on his head that pours over his face. “The Daedric Princes gathered a Time ago in Lord Jyggalag’s _Crystal Lattice_. Lady Nocturnal and Lord Mora move as we speak—”

“I don’t follow any of the Daedric Princes! I’m not inclined like _some people!”_ She grits her teeth and removes her foot. When the Daedra doesn’t stand fast enough, she hauls him to his feet herself and snaps. “I don’t know what’s going on—But I _don’t _need to have anything to do with your kind! I thought you had _answers _and all you’re giving me right now is—”

“Lord Sanguine suspects Lady Nocturnal’s Nightingales are targeting the _zaam mey tiid, _my Lady.” Sullivan interrupts her. His eyes hold concern and regret. “I apologize for the _outburst, _my Lady, but Lord Sanguine demands you know of it. The _zaam mey tiid_’s soul is being negotiated for. One condition of the process is that their thu’um is dealt with _accordingly.”_

“Sahkriimir.” Kara registers the name and stares up at him. “You’re talking about _Sahkriimir?”_

“Yes, the _zaam mey tiid._” Sullivan tilts his head to one side. “…Lady Kara, my Lord suspects Lady Nocturnal will use the Skeleton Key to remove Zaammeytiid’s thu’um.”

“I’m an idiot.” The woman’s eyes widen. She holds her head and begins to curse in sheer, incessant outrage—directed at herself. The others in the room fall quiet. Kara doesn’t have to look back to know the same unease is shared between her and Brynjolf. She turns and pleads at the Nord, “Did Mercer send Sahkriimar out on a job before we left? Something that kept them out of the cistern? Away from the world, from everyone else? Do we even know who they talked to _last?_”

“Lass.” Brynjolf’s answer is soft. “I ran into them in the cistern the morning we left. The night before—We were having a _discussion _and Mercer interrupted. Left them with him and retired to bed. But that’s… That’s all I know.”

“…Oblivion.” Kara’s body sways. She feels sick to her stomach. She feels Vex run to her side and hold her upright when her legs give. Brynjolf pulls a chair over and Kara sits before her body shuts down as a putrid nausea fills her chest. “This was all a set-up. Karliah’s not—Karliah was never—Fuck. _Fuck. _I didn’t consider…”

“What’s going on?” Niruin leaves Mage’s side and takes a step forward. The elf is concerned with something other than tits, ass, and himself for once. “Kara?”

“I don’t think I can tell you.” She whispers quietly. “You won’t—It won’t make sense. It won’t make sense, gods, no.”

_Mercer Frey and Karliah are Agents of Nocturnal. I knew Nightingales followed Nocturnal, and I knew from the start individuals who make pacts with the Daedric Princes can retain memories from a past cycle. The Emperor—Last time—When I killed him—He told me he knew of himself, of First Ambassador Elenwen, and of Paarthurnax possessing memories. I should have… Suspected… Known… _Kara’s thoughts become a mish-mash of things that don’t make sense, scattered across a canvas of a chill worse than any snowstorm. Her eyes water and she begins to shake uncontrollably. Vex kneels and wraps arms around her while Kara struggles to breath and calm and not _lose any semblance of control _she has over her emotions.

“You—You asked me—How future—Might go,” The Dragonborn’s teeth chatter and she clenches their eyes shut. No one answers, but she knows Brynjolf pays attention to every damn syllable. “Dragonborn—Sanctum—Cuts—Throat.”

“Was that what you meant? About _Snow Veil Sanctum_? About telling people not to go there, or—” Vex begins.

Kara screams into Vex’s shoulder. Even muffled, it is loud and long and painful. It is every ounce of dismay and helplessness she imagines has encountered Sahkriimir by this point. She’s a cocky, egoistical fool to ever think she had a grasp on the situation. Even while her body sobs, her mind continues on loop, _He sent us away. He sent us away. He sent us away so he could get them alone. He… _

The Dremora butler dispels nearby. Mage quietly comments from the side. “…So… I don’t have any more magicka. If you have more potions I could summon him again. Or try to, Talos. Dremora are complicated beings.”

“Kara,” Vex says quietly. “Kara, hey. Hey. I know everything feels like shit right now, I know, but—Yes or not? You want Mage here to call the butler back?”

When Kara draws back, she looks over at the Imperial woman. Vex’s platinum-blond hair falls in tangles around her face, but the woman’s ever-sharp and watchful gaze is unusually soft and concerned. Vex’s hands rub Kara’s arms soothingly. The Dragonborn’s eyes water again.

“We need an answer.” Vex frowns. “What do you want us to do?”

“Give her the potion.” Kara whispers. “And untie her. She’s not gonna try and fight the _Dragonborn.”_

The next time Sullivan arrives, he dons a new suit and bears no sign of injuries. The Dremora steps out of a sphere of grandiose violet magic and takes a bow. As he rises, he locks eyes on Kara and the latter stares. Sullivan takes it as his cue to boisterously declare, “Lady Kara! Summoner _Mage! _It is lovely to see you both! How may I be of assistance to either of you?”

“Sullivan.” The Dragonborn stands at Vex’s side. Her hand clasps tightly with Vex’s own, and though she knows eyes are on her, none of the other thieves comment on it.

“My Lady.” Sullivan confirms.

“What else can _Sanguine _tell me about what… Um.” Kara bites her lip. She bows her head. “About… What’s going _on_? I don’t know how to word it. I’m sorry. Can you tell us anything else about Nocturnal? Hermaeus Mora?”

“Ah, yes, there is in fact something that slipped my mind! Naturally, it is upon me to inform you, my Lady, that Lord Mora’s champion is assigned the job of dominating Zaammeytiid’s will. Do you know of—” Sullivan begins.

“—Miraak? _Miraak?_” Kara sputters. “He’s—He’s actually—”

“Who is Miraak? The name sounds like a dragon?” From the side, Rune blinks slowly and looks around for someone to answer the question.

“Miraak Dragonborn is the First Dragonborn, first of his and Kara’s kin! He is a man who swore himself to Hermaeus Mora’s side in exchange for life after coming face-to-face with death at the hands of another dragon priest in eras long ago,” Sullivan answers everything with a smile to his lips and unending perkiness to his eyes. “I am under the impression he is not set to arrive in Skyrim until Zaammeytiid’s thu’um is removed.”

“Miraak. Mir-Aak. Allegiance-Guide,” Kara curses softly. “He has thousands of years of magicka, stamina, and combat experience over us. None of us will be able to best him if he arrives. We need to find Sahkriimir before then.”

“Wait, is their name not Sahkriimar? Zaammeytiid? Which is…?” Rune frowns.

“…Sahkriimir. Sahkriimar. I pray they’re alive to correct me.” Kara curses again. “_Meyye los dovahkiin tah._”

“Fools is…?” Brynjolf repeats quietly. “What does that mean, lass?”

“Fools is Dragonborn pack. We are fools. I am insulting all of us, but especially me,” the Dragonborn states. “…How far out are we from Riften?”

“Too far in this storm. Two days at the least.” Niruin answers for everyone.

“…I can’t remember how to shout the sky away.” Kara rakes her brain for answers and grimaces. “I—I don’t remember the words. I don’t remember what sky is.”

_“Lok.”_ Brynjolf clears his throat. He catches Kara’s gaze and holds it. “It’s… _lok_.”

“_Lok_. It is _lok_. I can’t believe that slipped my mind—How do you know it?” The Dragonborn blinks. She stiffens, then snaps back to Sullivan. “—Nevermind, nevermind. I know the answer to that. Anyways.”

_You never shut up about the sky, Sahkriimir._

“I’d like to ask something of _Sullivan_. Lass. If you don’t mind.” Brynjolf strides forward and stares up at the tall Dremora, who overshadows him by several inches.

Kara pauses. “Go ahead. Sullivan, please answer him to the best of your abilities.”

“Of course, my Lady. How may I assist you, Brynjolf?” Sullivan pipes up with the same collective smile.

The Nord’s brows furrow. “Do all Daedra’s know my name, lad?”

“Not at all, but my Lord is a Prince of many talents! He’s quite well-acquainted with you, naturally.” The butler beams proudly, to the point Kara wants to groan.

“How well-acquainted is he with Sahkriimir?” Brynjolf grits his teeth. “How many times has he spoken with Sahkriimir?”

“Twice in the current cycle, I believe! Many times prior to the past reset. Lord Sanguine and Zaammeytiid bear great animosity toward one another. The only thing that compels the two to cooperate is,” Sullivan hums and gestures in a great sweeping arm motion at Kara. “Lady Kara.”

Niruin’s sputters interrupt the conversation. He snaps his head back and forth and meets Rune’s confused gaze with one of his on. “Brynjolf—Do you understand a _word _of what the Daedra speaks of?”

“I’ve got it, lad, don’t worry.” The Nord replies without pause. He clenches his eyes shut and speaks softly. “…Sullivan… Daedra. Can your Lord… What is the extent of his powers? How much can he see?”

“Lord Sanguine is a Daedric Prince, one of the most powerful beings across Oblivion! He commands his own legion of Daedra and his realms are full of folk merriment and muse. He is capable of many things, but his sphere of influences gravitates to three sectors: Hedonism, Debauchery, and Indulgence. Some regard him as the Lord of Seven Deadly Sins: Sloth, Pride, Envy, Wrath, Greed, Gluttony, and Lust. His plane of existence, the Myriad Realms of Revelry, _revels _in Lust by far.”

Brynjolf’s mouth hangs open but no words come. He closes his mouth and looks to the side. “…Can he show others things?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, of _course, _Brynjolf! Lord Sanguine knows _all _desires and wants of all creatures! Even of other Daedra—His knowledge and awareness is unfathomable!” Sullivan’s caught on to what the man asks of. The butler tilts his head to one side and offers a wicked gleam not unlike his Lordship’s own smile. _How _Kara knows of that specific fact bewilders her, but she listens as Sullivan continues. “Were you hoping to acquire my Lord’s services? He is a decadent god, he will show you exactly what you want to know!”

“So he showed Sahkriimir, then.” The Nord’s fists clench. “He showed Sahkriimir the dream.”

“…If I understand you correctly then _naturally _the circumstantial answer would be _yes_, Brynjolf.” The Dremora pauses. “Do my words upset you? I apologize for any inconvenience the revelation may cause but my Lady asked me to answer all inquiries to the _best _of my abilities, sir!”

The man visibly tenses. He grits his teeth and the anger, the _outrage, _pours off him in waves. But Brynjolf is a level-headed man, and even if he were not, Kara has the shout of _gol hah _on her lips to force him to stop if necessary. She feels relief that the man keeps his composure and doesn’t try and cut the Dremora down. Sullivan looks between each member of the party with a pleasant smile.

“Will that be all?” Sullivan inquires.

“Can your master check on Sahkriimir? Right _now_?” Brynjolf asks. He keeps his eyes shut and his breathing steady. Kara admires his restraint.

The butler looks befuddled. “Well…”

_“Answer him.” _Kara barks.

“Lady Kara, Brynjolf, established friendly folks of the aforementioned individuals—Lord Sanguine can know _anyones _deepest, darkest desires. But I must be dispelled to ask him. After—I must be summoned back here to deliver the news.” Sullivan pauses. “If you wish, I am more than happy to press my Lord on this matter?”

“How many magicka potions do we have left?” Kara turns to Vex.

The Imperial woman shrugs. She glances at Rune and Niruin; though the two seem _clueless _on what the hell anyone speaks of, they understand _magicka potions_. Rune checks two satchels and Niruin pokes through a bag at his waist. One pulls out a flimsy, tiny vial of blue liquid. Niruin exhales slowly and holds it up, “It’s all we got left, Kara. Brynjolf.”

“Mage, will it be sufficient enough?” Kara asks the ginger-haired woman, who has been quiet up until now.

“…I guess,” Mage grimaces, cracks her knuckles, and takes the vial from Niruin.

_If we could just talk to… this Dremora’s Lord… Ask him directly… This Sanguine, _Kara’s eyes dim. _I wish we could. It would make things so much easier than going back and forth using potions! Just to get all our questions out of the way! _

Mage fumbles with the cap and grimaces when Niruin steps in to help loosen it. The half-Nord glances from one person to the next. She downs the potion and retches at the contents. It takes a minute to dispel Sullivan. Mage counts the seconds under breath while Kara peers at her and Brynjolf keeps his eyes shut and his breath faint. When the conjuration spell is cast, the magic surges into a great sphere. But instead of forming a violet ball of light and magicka, the magic dips into a dark and devious shade of _sanguine_-red. The sphere explodes in size and shoots up far beyond any of the times Mage cast the spell prior. Kara lets go of Vex’s hand and steps forward to Brynjolf’s side; she holds an arm out instinctively and ignores his look of confusion.

The Dremora-like figure that steps out is not a butler. Far from it—Kara can see the Prince is _much _taller, and towers just shy of seven feet. The Daedra’s presence is made known in a pungent aroma of alcohol that seeps in through the floor, the walls, and the air itself. Kara grits her teeth and pushes Brynjolf back. She doesn’t quite know who the Prince is, but something tells her she must be the one to deal with him. When Brynjolf begins to protest, Kara’s eyes grow dark and she _shoves _him back at the others. The Dragonborn stands between the Daedra and her fellow thieves, acting as both a buffer and a representative.

The Daedra looks solemn and intimidating dressed in a full suit of Daedric armor.

“…Kara.” The Prince says in a tone that makes color drain from her face. “Look at you, still in one piece. How’s my favorite Dragonborn doing?”

“Who are you?” She blurts out the words before anyone else has a chance to speak. Kara’s fists clench and she stares up at the Daedra’s rich ruby eyes without fear. “You’re not Sullivan. Are you his Lord? _Lord Sanguine?_”

“…So, it’s true.” the Prince ignores her comments and frowns. His eyes are not murderous or bloodthirsty like she thought they would be. “You let Sheogorah’s madness alter your memories.”

“Don’t change the subject.” The thirty-one-year-old states firmly. “Are you _the_ Lord Sanguine?”

“_Prince, _actually. If we’re going with formalities go hard or go home.” The Prince grins ear-to-ear at her. He’s amused by it all! Kara’s eyes narrow and she grits her teeth when he leans down to her eye level. “Yes—I’m _Sanguine. _Lord of Debauchery, Hedonism, the whole nine yards!”

“_Prince Sanguine,_” the Daedra’s ego aggravates Kara to no end. She forces each word out. “My friend and I—” She gestures behind her at Brynjolf, who seethes in anger at the sight of the Prince standing so casually nearby. “Want to _know _something… About a friend of _ours. _Sahkriimir—”

“Mm, I don’t do favors for free—” Sanguine rubs his chin and shrugs.

Kara’s growl reverberates through the air. She grabs the Daedra’s chestplate and pulls him close. His wicked smile makes her want to rip his head off, but she refrains enough to snarl, _“What do you want in return?_”

The Prince whistles sharply. “—If you _let me finish,_ Kara—I don’t do favors for free _most _of the time. But you’re the exception.”

The Dragonborn squints. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” His grin reverts to a smile, but it’s not big nor stretched out like one might a smug grin. His voice dips into a low tone and he states calmly. “You wanted to _talk._”

“I wanted to—” The Dragonborn begins in confusion, but her a pain sears through her brain.

_She remembers laughing on a bed, wrapped up in a dark figure’s embrace and vivid afterglow. “Gods. Insufferable. I forgot what I was going to say.”_

_She can’t make out the face, but she knows there is a smile on his lips. She can hear it when his tone, brimming with mirth and affection for her, sounds. “Maybe you should remember it. Before we try again,” a pause follows, and the figure leans closer. Every touch is divine. She remembers the heat of his touch, of even the most gentle caress causing her to hum in delight. The dark figure’s voice continues. “It’s fun, isn’t it?”_

_She knows the answer. She’s thought it a thousand times since Windhelm, over and over again with every second she’s counted until now. She remembers her feelings, her thoughts, and warmth encompass the tired woman’s words as she whispers, “It connects me to you.”_

_The statement alone, all of her own doing and choice, is enough to make butterflies in her stomach return. She blushes and looks to the side, but the dark figure in the bed caresses her cheek gently and tilts her head back to face his. She doesn’t recognize his face, but she knows he wears a smile reserved for her. When he kisses her, she melts into the moment and mumbles with newfound courage. “—Esbern. I got to find Esbern later. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is when I go find Esbern. Sky Haven Temple. I’m going to make him make Delphine give me a horn. Then I get to go to that one mountain…”_

_She remembers the exhaustion of a night well spent. She remembers her smile when she presses against him, thoroughly entwined. He’s warm._

_“Climb it a lot,” she recalls the woozy words, drifting off her mind as it begins to lull itself to sleep. “Give horn to Greybeards. Something like that. Talk to dragon. You’re… warm… and also my favorite…”_

_“I know, Kara.” He always knows what she wants. She still frowns when he leaves the bed, even if its to get a blanket and climb back in. Her lips curl in a haze of warmth when his arms wrap around her and the blanket settles about the two. _

_She remembers closing her eyes and whispering his name._

_“Mm,” the dark figure kisses her forehead. _

_“I think,” The affection wells up inside her. She relaxes and lets her mind speak everything she feels. “I love you.” _

_She feels the smile against her ear as he whispers back. “...I love you more.”_

She comes to on her knees with Vex keeping her upright and her head in her hands. Kara can’t hear right away but she knows the sound of shouts and drawn weapons. She can hear a laugh that’s as familiar as something she can’t quite place. The woman struggles to lift her head and Vex snaps to catch her gaze; both ladies lock eyes and Kara breathes, “Do I know him?”

“Oblivion, _that’s _what you got out of that mess??” The white-haired Imperial sputters and hauls her to her feet. "Move it!"

“Mess?” Kara mumbles.

_“Frost Dragon, east wall!”_ She hears Niruin shout.

Vex drags her away and Kara struggles to keep up as the two run through a mess of flurries. The surroundings look different. She can’t remember what happened between the moment the group spoke with _Lord Sanguine _and the present. She feels relief at possessing her armor and weapons, and she silently thanks Zeus that Vex appears the same. In the madness of an entire time fleeing mid-snowstorm, Kara makes out the faint shapes of Brynjolf and two of the group’s horses. Rune, Mage, and the Daedric Prince are nowhere to be found.

“We got to go, lasses! There’s dragons! Three of ‘em, at least!” Brynjolf is forced to shout against increasing winds while the sound of roars rings from the distance.

“Rune! Niruin! The mage! Where are they?” Kara shouts as she takes the reins of one horse and pulls the mare away from the whiteness that is the snow-ridden town. Vex follows her while Brynjolf manages his own steed.

“We don’t know, lass! But they’re tough! Got to trust they got their own feet in front of them!” The Thieves Guild’s second head calls from behind.

The roars continue to crash, and soon a chorus of screams serenades the distance. Kara keeps moving. There’s nothing left to do but move. She feels only the gales of frigid air at her back, the snow beneath her feet, and the struggles of her mare to keep up as Kara walks into the cold and away from the town. It might be a death sentence; she’s thoroughly lost on the direction or environment beyond a few inches from her face. If there are any steep drops, she’ll be a splat on the ground in seconds. The further she roams into the frozen wild lands of the Eastmarch in winter, the more her mind dulls and she chatters her teeth.

She’s cold.

The thirty-one-year-old doesn’t remember when her steps slow, but she feels Vex push her onward and take over manning the mare’s reins. Her thoughts fog up and she shakes in the expanse of whiteness. Her eyes dim and water, snot freezes against her nose, and she struggles to stay upright as exhaustion sets in. When she can go no longer, she stops and yells at the Vex and Brynjolf. “There—There must be _somewhere_ we can stop—Please!”

“I got a place! Over here!” The man calls. Brynjolf’s shout is faint against howling winds, but Kara musters up the strength to change her route and crawl through snow and over ice-slick rocks to where she thinks the man lingers.

When she can’t find him she whispers, _“Laas!” _

To her relief, she finds the red auras of Brynjolf and his horse in her vision ten-feet to the north from where she stops. The woman trudges and feels along a rocky cliff outcropping to get to where the blobs linger near a stone staircase cut into the rock. She shivers and stares at Brynjolf while he waves her into the staircase. “You go, lass! I got to get little Vex in here!”

“What about the horses?” Kara shouts.

“We’ll do what we can!”

Kara doesn’t argue. Her cold, tired body throws itself into clambering down ice-laden steps without tripping. She stumbles into a small, unimpressive chamber that reeks of death. The woman grimaces at the sight of rotting corpses. She doesn’t bother to count, merely makes a note of the bodies before continuing to look around. When footsteps come down the stairs, she jumps and spins to find Brynjolf’s snow-covered form pulling a horse stubbornly down the staircase. She smiles weakly at the sight; her heart lifts when she spots Vex doing the same with the two’s mare. After several minutes of pleading and pulling, the horses cooperate and slowly trot into the initial chamber. How no one slips is a miracle.

_“Oblivion._ I hate dragons.” Vex curses and walks over to Kara. “You okay?”

“I don’t think any of us are _okay, _little Vex.” Brynjolf calls from where he pats his steed’s neck with a gloved hand. The Nord’s eyes narrow. “This looks like tomb of some kind. Real old. Convenient timing, eh?”

“I hope Rune and Niruin made it out okay.” Kara bites her lip. She reaches into one pocket and feels for Rune’s white stone there; it is where she left it earlier, much to her relief. “…I couldn’t risk shouting, I’m sorry. I heard dragons and all I thought was how easy it’d be for them to pick us off one-by-one if they had a clear line of sight.”

“All’s forgiven, lass.” The Thieves Guild’s second head nods and manages a thin, meager smile. His eyes move past her form and the man walks over to join Vex and Kara at the start of a corridor. “…I imagine this goes deeper. Probably undead in these grounds, if the bodies are any indication.”

“Well, I can check that. I know the shout for it. The real question’s if we want to bother venturing deeper and potentially setting off traps.” Kara’s brows furrow.

“Aren’t we _thieves?_” Vex’s teeth chatter. “Doesn’t stone _hold heat _or—Oblivion, something like that?”

“It _is _pretty cold up here, lass. Snow’s blown in, and I bet it’ll keep coming as long as that blizzard continues outside.” Brynjolf wipes his nose and grimaces.

“Alright, alright. Point made; Vex wants to loot and we all want to scavenge for warmth. Hang on,” Kara slowly creeps along the edge of the first corridor to the initial corner. She peeks her head around and frowns at the sight of a slain Draugr’s corpse meandering next to a spiral staircase heading to the next level. “Um. Brynjolf, Vex—I think someones been here before us. There’s dead undead and it’s a real mouthful.” She points it out when the two come over. “That change anything?”

“The loot’s probably gone, but I bet we can find shit to burn if we rummage.” Brynjolf pauses. “Vex?”

“Use your shout, Kara. Can’t be too sure.” The white-haired thief holds herself and shivers impatiently.

They are all _freezing _and she doesn’t remember the first word of the Fire Breath shout.

But Kara remembers the shout of Aura Whisper and she sucks in a deep breath. She whispers it and lets her thu’um manifest, _“Laas yah nir.” _

The woman looks under her as she spins in a full circle. She blinks slowly, squints, and stiffens.

“How cleared out is it?” Vex grits her teeth impatiently.

“They’re all dead,” the Dragonborn stares at the floor, through the floor, and to the depths of a level far, far below the three. “Except one. There’s a single creature left alive or... alive in undeath. They’re standing up, but kind of slouched and leaning to one side. I’ve never seen a Draugr in that position before.” As the single aura fades from her vision, she frowns and looks up at her companions. “I don’t mean to alarm you two—But that could be a dragon priest. They float, kind of. That or…”

“An actual living, breathing person?” Vex grimaces.

“Might be Niruin or Rune if they got here first. Best to see.” Brynjolf strides past the two women and starts down the staircase before Vex has a chance to complain more. Kara frowns and glances at Vex before shrugging and following the man down. Given the trio’s escape from three Frost Dragons in the middle of nowhere, she doubts anything they find could make their day more worse than it already is.

_At least... I hope not. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just realized i keep spelling sahkriimir's name as sahkriimar...  
its sahkriimir the mir is dov for allegience eg miraak allegience-guide  
time to go back and fix it...
> 
> but hope u guys enjoyed the chapter !!  
thank u to everyone who sticks with this  
i appreciate every single reader and i hope ya'll have a good day  
^_^


	25. accept responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thrown from the sky and stripped of their voice, zaammeytiid struggles to find meaning in life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c+f 'dragonkind turns on them' to skip the "veering off canon lore at high speeds because i can"

Their body rots underground. In the darkness of the Nordic tomb, they find old memories unearth.

_Dragons were created to dominate._

It’s drilled into their head from the second the tooth on the end of their snout pecks through the soft eggshell. They sound out cries and join the rest of their clutch in pleading for the flesh of man and rich-red blood that runs through their veins. Dominating the egg is the first step to demonstrating the power their Deity-Patron bestowed on their kind.

_Akatosh. Deity-Patron. _Not by blood but by religion, born and blessed and brimming with the sanctity of a superiority the creatures of land can never achieve. They soon learn a term for the them: _landwalker. _

Every dragon is immortal. Their souls are endless unless absorbed by another of their kin, but dragons fight each other less and focus their efforts over the endless legions of the ground rising to shoot them from the sky. They don’t fully understand the landwalker’s feeble attempts to strike them down; they grow up in a time where their kin reigns supreme over the landwalkers and they possess all the resources necessary to mature and complete adolescence. They know most dragons die in youth, only to rise and succeed on maturation the second time. But they are not _most _dragons.

They do not know their Blood-Family. After the first feeding, the hatchlings are left on their own. This is the time most dragons fall to the risks young ones take. 

"If three of us approach north," the supposed leader of the pack breathes the words to other adolescents, the youth all spry and impatient to get a move on with the hunt. "You can approach south. The mages will be distracted by one, never mind _four _of us. Pathetic lot, _mer, _they will taste as vivid as their skin is gold! A rich, delicacy of mortal flesh!"

"It won't work. They have two too many mages." They speak firmly, already convinced in the failure of the hunt. "We raided this outpost a month ago. Defenses have... _grown. _They expect us."

"If you cooperate-" The memory cuts out a second, only white glowing in their mind's eyes before the scene continues. "-We will be _successful. _Dragons were made for domination! Mer landwalkers fear us! They cannot strike us down!"

They are not like most young dragons_. _They see the risks involve and judge accordingly, a tactical decision that overrules the bloodthirst for mortal flesh for a moment. "No. I refuse. Run this hunt on your own."

It is the right decision, and they know it is, because when the memory skips forward they watch from a distance as three adolescent dragons are speared from the sky and slaughtered by those who walk the land. It is a lesson: greed is a downfall, and one should not engage fights with power they lack the potential to overwhelm. They take the lesson in stride and continue on, and the memories flit from a small youth to late adolescence, when they are on the cusp of maturity and forced to confront their kind.

"Enough of this." They bellow at one gathering, where hundreds of dragons look on in awe and horror. "I am judged by my voice! Not the prestige of lineage! Do not heed me by a Blood-Father's name!"

Though they never confirm the true identify nor name of their parents, they suspect their Blood-Father is a dragon of great prestige. They know the dragon is a wicked one, whose tyranny and powers lead him to a scourge of succession and domination across landwalker kingdoms and empires. They heard it in their youth, they heard it in their adolescence, and they hear it even as a full-fledged adult capable of rearing clutches of their own. Their Blood-Father is always a hindrance, a factor, a connection others claim they envy and vie for. Dragons should not seek approval or praise for familial links; they do not form family ties. Their Blood-Father is but another name to one-day cross off on the list of dragons they will surpass in power and might. Akatosh wills it so, and so it must be.

Within each dragon is a _voice_. It is not simply decibels and snarls, nor screeches and roars of triumph, but the very essence of the divine gift of Akatosh’s blood. They are of the Deity-Patron, the Dragon-Man, the Time of Time Again, and they live and breath with the _voice _in their soul. Though dragons may quarrel and conflict, every dragon breathes the _voice _ and a battle between two dragons is ultimately the test of true domination: the claim to a soul, the right to a song, and the philosophy of two dragons innately bred to slaughter in different ways. The _voice _manifests differently in dragons. Just as there are different kinds of dragons, there are different strengths of _voices _and the dominating voice leads the flight of a whole. This dragon does not change, for there has never been one so mighty as the first-born child of the Deity-Patron, the World Eater: Destroyer-Devour-Master.

They are not Destroyer-Devour-Master. They are not the World Eater's voice. They know this, for his scales are black and theirs are white, spikes line his hide while a gold mane gleams through theirs, and his height towers over them whereas the length of their body could strangle him in an instant. He is the dominating _voice_ of all dragonkind, the leader and tyrant, the king and the _Son of Akatosh_, and sometimes they think he is one half of the pair that spawned them into existence with the rest of their ill-fated siblings. But they recognize his might, they recognize his godhood, and they recognize he leads dragonkind to domination of all landwalkers. Recognition does not stop them from vying for the title, the position, and the power.

The sky sings their name on occasion, when the holes in the sky shine with great golden light come sunset and sunrise. Those are the evenings and mornings and moments they bellow out a challenge to Alduin. It never comes to fruition, and they could never truly fight a dragon that surpasses them in _Akatosh_’s will, but they sound each roar regardless. When no World-Eater comes, none but the suitors seeking submission or to submit by the rite of combat ingrained in ancient dragon tradition, they spend the evening ripping their kin to shreds and absorbing more and more souls into their body.

They admire the landwalkers, sometimes, when their flesh is ripe and ready to burst from the slightest swipe of talons or gnashing of teeth. Even in death, the landwalkers fight valiantly and without fear. Their souls hold loyalty but little value beyond the resolve to survive on the ground against the sky. It is a futile effort. They are descendant of the Deity-Patron, Time of a Time, the _Dragon-Man _who bears power of both land and sky—They do not yield; they do not hesitate in ravaging the land to praise the sky.

When their mane stains red from the sanguine-liquid of life pooling at their feet, they lick it clean and shout in pleasure. They have no regrets; they are created to dominate everything in sight.

They consider, one day, why the landwalkers worship but fear the sky. Is it the suns, in the gargantuan heat and energy and light that flourishes flora and fauna without pause? Is it the winds that rumble and howl when the dragons fly overhead and pick apart their settlements and villages? Is it the clouds that hide omens or hint at despair when the shadows of great, scale-covered immortals flashes overhead? Is it the lack of control, the lack of power, the lack of restraint over their fates that drives them to strike back and suffer?

They all suffer! They all _will _suffer, for it is decreed the sky rules the land and the land fears the sky and they _are _of the sky and they _will _dominate the land. They intend to destroy and devour and live up to the unspoken namesake they refuse to confirm: the child of a world-eater, the grandchild of the Deity-Patron. Their voice splits the sky and shatters sound.

They were created for domination.

"I lack something," they utter the words, a beautiful dragon of white scales. "Ambition-Overlord-Cruelty. I am every bit as capable and strong as my kin! Why does Destroyer-Devour-Master favor you? Favor Snow-Hunter-Wing? Give you two rank and authority?"

"Patience. What could you lack?" The dragon responds gingerly, too gentle for a dragon but too stern for an adviser.

They growl and whip their head back. "I know the Words of Power! I cut down those who oppose me, the unworthy, but our God does not recognize my might. What do I lack? Do you know? Tell me!"

"...Order." The elder dragon's tail sways side-to-side. He looks beyond them, at the great dip off the cliff face and the view beyond it.

"How do I get it?" They spit it like a command, but they know they hold no authority over Ambition-Overlord-Cruelty. He is Destroyer-Devour-Master's right-hand and talon, a vicious and terribly bloodthirsty dragon feared and hated by landwalkers across the ground.

For a moment, they see a flicker of hesitation pass the white dragon's face. Their eyes narrow and they growl lowly. Ambition-Overlord-Cruelty ignores the noise and their fruitless attempts to intimidation. "Perhaps the time for Order is soon. You must seek it on your own accord, little dragon. You will not find it through force."

The roar that beckons is horrible. Destroyer-Devour-Master's voice is loud enough to hear from a miles away; it makes the air hang heavily and the sky shake with newly-formed clouds. Ambition-Overlord-Cruelty exhales slowly and unfurls large, beautiful wings. They grit their teeth at him and snap. "You are useless to me!"

"Look where the earth meets the sky. That is where Order lays."

It is in possession of the fleas on the ground, the spit under their feet, for the landwalkers possess the very thing they lack: order. It is what Ambition-Overlord-Cruelty means, surely, because when they observe the landwalkers they see how unified and capable they are. They desire the same. It is a shift of attitude and perspective from their kin. Though they are not kind, and they are not good, and they are definitely not the hero that comes in the shape of a white-scaled Ambition-Overlord-Cruelty, they are not quite themself. But they find comfort in the fact their perception remains in line with the World Eater's will: they are not the uncle they will never acknowledge, because he is a worshiper of the ground who chooses the blessings of Kynareth over his own kin. He is _weak. _They remain strong. They remain ambitious. 

When the World Eater is thrown into the blood of the Deity-Patron, into Akatosh himself, their desire for what the World Eater formerly has comes to a boil. They are not chosen as leader, nor is the treacherous Ambition-Overlord-Cruelty, but they know they can _prove _themself worthy to dragonkind. They need the Order! They need to dominate their will! They find a way to obtain what they seek, even if it goes beyond the gods of dragonkind and leads them down a path of ruin.

They find it in a shining figure with a crystal helm and royalty in his veins. He is Order itself; his perfection is endless and his qualities superior to the chaos that reigns Oblivion in the double-heart of the dragon. They know he is their path, and not even the outrage of dragonkind and the rejection of their _voice _as leader deters them. They bow their head and pray to the knight of Order, the knight of Logic, the knight of Deduction, and when he comes: they offer their _soul _in exchange for the Order they lack.

But the old Gods are tricksters and _thieves. _They did not know the Order of Law and Logic and Control was a Prince of Madness in disguise. They did not anticipate Lord Sheogorath’s arrival at the end of their first Greymarch! They did not realize the lines written in their arrangement, that which comes from powers at play in the Void encompassing all existence.

Dragonkind turns on them and bestows a new name: _zaam mey tiid, _the slave of Time.

If they were asked once more, by the _et’Ada _that fuels hate, or by the strong-hearted Dragonborn of a beautiful planet with a beautiful blue sky, they would confess to the memories that only now surface. For their means to avoid accountability comes to an end: they are _Zaammeytiid, _a dragon who did not seek to aid humanity in overthrowing their father’s tyranny. They sought the power of the World-Eater himself, the influence and devastation carved out by their destructive voice, and they lost everything in pursuit of it. They are, were, and will always be traitors to those of the _land_ and those of the _sky_.

It’s easier to accept responsibility when one dies, but in a cycle of punishment—The human form of an ancient dragon lingers.

Their body remains stuck in place, slanted and chained to the pillar they were left in. The puzzle-door of the chamber is closed; they know behind closed eyes Mercer Frey shut it when he finished removing the last of their identify.

_Dragons were created to dominate. _But they never will. They smell the pools of red staining the ground, they feel the pressure sores buried in their feet, and they sense every inch of emptiness left by the hole that was once their _Voice. _It has another name, one they wish they could shout, but to so much as speak the word _thu’um _wrong now might cause their body to give and their lungs to cough through their chest.

Mercer Frey took his time unlocking the _potential _to use their _voice. _They could never scream beyond the paralysis potion. They could never voice the pleads and cries and begging that sounded in their head. They could never escape the ruthlessness of the man when he severed their _voice _from the sky and let their soul crash into the earth. A dragon without the sky is no dragon at all; it is simply a creature that lives a life without purpose. Their purpose is gone, but the body remains, and they have cried and wept and screamed too much in the endless eternity since Karliah’s poison wore off.

_Unworthy of the sky. _It sounds in their head, so cruel and crushing their consciousness struggles to stay intact.

They are not _dragon__. _They do not posses a _voice, _they do not possess a body of their own. The human form is simply a lend until Lord Sheogorath determines their punishment is adequate. They are a hazardous collection of thoughts, of fragments, and of pain. They can’t keep their eyes open. They don’t have a name. They feel cold.

Sometimes they sleep, but in their dreams all they see is the fallen body of the dragon they once were. They were once tall, glorious, and possessed a _voice _and a _power _that surpassed most dragons. All their dreams bring is the mental image of the body they were once worthy enough to call their own, of the beautiful white scales dipped in gold and the gleaming gold mane that danced with the wind. All their dreams crash to the ground and remind them they do not have a place anymore.

Then the puzzle door gives to the force on the other side and they become forced to live and linger in the cycle of punishment. They hear the door open but speak no words nor look up. They do not have strength, but they pray if it is grave robbers or Mercer Frey himself that they are given a quick death and not tortured endlessly.

“Oblivion.” One voice is a curse, loud and profane. “There’s a person.”

“Undead?” Another, lesser but profound. “Wait, no. I can check if they're still alive or not. Stay back. _Laas._”

_Life. _

Dragons were created for domination of life.

One persons voice follows a sharp exhale. “—That’s—_Something_—”

“Alive? Dead? Can you tell? Kara! Listen to me!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know _Detect Life _or _Detect Dead. _My shout doesn’t specify, Vex. Oblivion, can you believe this woman?” A pause. “Brynjolf?”

“Getting them down. Could use a hand, lass. There’s—A lot of blood. These are shackles, not rope. Either of you got a lockpick?”

They have no capabilities to catch themself when the chains finally drop free. A pair of arms and many hands help keep them from crashing to the ground. The pressure sores on their feet ache and throb. After a moment, arms pluck them from the ground. They feel their body be carried from somewhere to _somewhere else. _

“Do we have any healing potions? Lasses?” The accent is familiar. The voice is strained. They hear people shuffle through _something_, and the soft clinking of glass. Hands fumble or shift. They don’t know for sure, but a softer hand--free of callouses—holds their mouth open. Fingers tip a vial into their mouth. The liquid goes down without resistance.

“…No,” One voice breathes and shudders. “No, Oblivion, no—No—”

“Kara?” A voice pauses. “Kara! Relax! _Talos_, we don’t want anyone losing their head here!”

“Lass, what’s the matter?”

Someone sobs.

A different person exhales sharply. “Oh. Oh. _Oh_—They’re wearing—”

The grip on them becomes very tight. Whoever holds unto them is rigid and still as stone.

“This isn’t Snow Veil—This isn’t—Things shouldn’t _happen this way!” _Kara screams. “We—Going to find you—"

“Did the health potion take?... Brynjolf?” Another person pauses. “Brynjolf. Brynjolf! For fuck’s sake, I’ll stab sense into both of you—_Someone answer me!” _

“It took.” Is all the Nord says.

“Do we have any others? Any?” The person asks.

“No.” Kara’s reply is quiet.

Brynjolf says nothing. A gloved hand rises to their cheek. A thumb traces slow, gentle circles there.

“…I’m gonna try—Using magic—If either of you two say _jack shit _about how bad I am at this—” Vex cuts off the words. On part of the body they float in, they can feel the magic pour into the wounds. But it won’t heal the gap left behind where they once possessed a _voice. _It won’t bring the _voice _back. It won’t lift them into the sky. After several minutes pass, Vex groans in exhaustion and cuts off the magic. They hear her sit nearby. “—That’s all I can do for awhile. Shit, that takes life out of you. Hey—Kara—Can you make a fire? Someone? No? ...I’ll do it.”

“Lassie.” The words are very, very soft. A hand, the same gloved hand as before, tucks hair behind an ear. “...Your hair is… new. I’d like to know—” His voice cracks and he inhales sharply. “—If your eyes are the same—So _please_—Don’t keep them shut too long.”

But they do. Their body is weak, malnourished, and their muscles have atrophed. Vex’s intermittent restoration magic helps, but she’s no healer, and without further health potions it is a waiting game. They don’t understand why the Imperial woman keeps subjecting herself to brutal exhaustion and drained magicka stores. It isn’t worth it; they know Vex doesn’t give two shits about their well-being and they know they are not a _thing _worth saving. The ground does not shield the sky and the sky does not praise the ground.

“I wish we knew how long we’ve been down here. Think we should take them to the upper levels? Brynjolf? Kara? Anyone?” Vex is the sole source of noise. Kara merely grunts and Brynjolf says nothing.

They drift in and out of consciousness for a long time.

At one point, the trio moves them. They don’t know where to, and they don’t know where they are going, but their consciousness stirs as they are being handed to someone on horseback. A different set of hands wraps leather around them and ties their body to the horse’s rider.

“That should hold.” Vex states. “I think. Been awhile since I practiced sailor’s knots, but…”

“Thanks, little Vex.” Brynjolf’s voice is close.

_“Don’t_ ride too fast. The bumps in the road _will _throw them off.” Vex huffs. “We’re two days out from Riften if the weather’s good and we don’t run into trouble. Don’t lose your cool until then.”

“…I’ll keep it in mind.”

The first time they open their eyes is… sometime _later, _when they aren’t to Riften yet but somewhere in the wild lands. The sky is hazel. It takes a moment to acknowledge their bloodshot eyes look not into the sky, but into Brynjolf’s watchful gaze. They must be at a camp, because they are in his arms again and his grip is both tight and gentle. It takes a moment for the man to register they see him.

“Talos,” his own eyes water. “Your eyes are _black_.”

When sleep calls, they obey.

When they wake up again, they are not in the Thieves Guild cistern nor a camp. They are at an inn in a town that smells like fish. They have their own room, but it is small. What alerts them to others around is the soft clucking and steps of a bird. They smell sweet corn among the terrible aroma of seafood. When their eyes open, they stare at a wooden ceiling. They don’t have strength to do more than look around, but they make out the one and only chicken Mullokah owns. The young boy is absent from the room; for a time they slip back into the throes of unconsciousness and let their body rest.

The world feels painful.

They stir after footsteps clobber to the room. The sound of laughter and cheerful giggles fills the air. The door pushes open and a young Nord comes bounding in; Mullokah’s hair has grown since the last time they saw him. He has short, thick dark-brown hair that isn’t combed. Freckles pepper his face. His eyes grow big and round and _happy _when he locks gazes with them. “Sahkriimir!!”

The young boy practically leap-frogs to hug their form. It makes them go rigid.

They say nothing.

The door lingers open a time. They know Brynjolf is there; he is the one always keeping an eye out for Mullokah and they can’t imagine he would be in town and purposely avoid the youth. When their head turns, they catch sight of every speck of relief in his gaze. But he doesn’t break composure; he maintains a calm smile when he strides to the bedside and gently pulls Mullokah off before the kid crushes them to death. “Little lad—They’re resting, try not to be so rough.”

“Oh! Right!” Mullokah grabs _Clucky _and holds the chicken in both arms. He sits on the end of the bed. Sahkriimir watches Brynjolf pull a chair over from the corner of the room. For a moment the two’s eyes meet and his smile falters.

_You’re trying to be strong for him. _

“Can you talk, lassie?” The man resumes his charming salesman façade and crosses his arms.

When they open their mouth to speak, a groan and crackle comes out instead words. Their eyes water and clench shut. 

_I am not of the sky._

Sahkriimir doesn’t try to speak again for several days.

A week after, they can manage words. Not lengthy conversations, but words. They manage stiff nods at Mullokah while the boy rattles on and off. Brynjolf spends a surprising amount of time watching or chiming in with silly, light-hearted comments. There’s an elephant in the room but Mullokah doesn’t pick up on it. For a time, Sahkriimir falls into a lull of small conversation. It’s easiest to nod to what others say. On a chilly Riften afternoon, Mullokah convinces them to put on clean clothes and go on a short walk. Granted, their legs are nowhere near strong enough to take them far, but they find a bench near the inn to sit on. It doesn’t escape them that the _clean clothes _are an extra set of Brynjolf’s ghoulish red-orange robes.

“Sahkriimir! Keep an eye on Clucky!” Mul calls over his shoulder before he runs around the corner and into the town’s central plaza.

The chicken sits near their feet. They smile faintly. It’s taken a long time, but Clucky has grown on them; they are grateful the bird provides eggs and keeps Mullokah occupied when they or Brynjolf are unavailable.

“Here,” when they look up they spy Mul walking back to them. The youth grins with glee. “It’s a new sweet roll! The… I forgot her name. But one of the vendors gave me one! And it was _so _good _so _I asked Brynjolf and he got me an extra.” He tears it in two and holds it out.

They blink slowly. “…Alright.”

They don’t know what to expect when they bite into it. It’s sweet and flaky and nothing like the flesh they once lusted after. There’s no blood in the surface, nothing but small bits of snowberries mingled into the pastry. The flavor is surprisingly subtle, but palatable. They vaguely wonder if it is the result of the loss of their _voice_, of the purest essence of all they were. But their disgustingly weak body needs nourishment; they eat and nod politely at Mul. He watches them the whole time with Clucky shoved on his lap and a twinkle in his eyes. “You like it? I can get us more! Or… Brynjolf can. But he would! I think! If he doesn’t I’ll pickpocket him anyways. I’ve been _practicing_—”

“Hrothgar.” They say the name quietly and it hushes the child.

“Huff-what?” Mul gawks. “What kind of a name is that?”

“High Hrothgar, little lad. I believe that’s what lassie here meant to say.” Brynjolf raises a brow in amusement as he strides to the two. Mullokah scoots to the middle of the bench so the Nord can sit on the end, furthest from them.

“Yes,” They nod.

“What’s High Hrothgar?” Mullokah strokes Clucky’s head. The chicken is asleep, lost in a nap they desperately envy.

“It’s the home of the Greybeards, little lad. At the Throat of the World.” Brynjolf doesn’t hesitate to explain with a grin on his lips.

_The Throat of the World. The place the sky fell._

“I’m sure when Sahkriimir here feels better they will share with us why they talk about old men on mountains.” The man pats Mul’s head. The boy scowls at the lack of a satisfying answer, but he says nothing. Brynjolf fishes out a stack of gold coins and hands them to Mullokah. “Buy me a bag of those rolls, eh? The ones with snowberries, little lad.”

“Yes! _Sweets for dinner!”_ Mullokah leaps to his feet with a chicken in one hand and coin in the other. He takes off in a sprint in the direction of the market plaza.

The silence that falls is uneasy.

“…Kara would like to see you. When you have the strength.” Brynjolf frowns and meets their gaze. His eyes are soft, but hesitant.

_Kara died on the mountain. _

Their fists clench and ball up fistfuls of the ugly, oversized red-orange robes they wear. They narrow their gaze and take deep breaths. “Kara. Okay.”

“Mullokah,” the Nord begins quietly. “…bawled for four hours when… We got here. When he saw you. Boy’s strong, but… He’s a child.”

“Needs home.” They grit their teeth. “Can’t… provide.”

“I think he still wants you in his life. Even if not a parent.”

“He’s…” Their voice begins to crack again. They cough and sputter and grab their throat. What they hack up is pure white, a mist that dissipates the second it leaves their body. They see, out of the corner of their eye, Brynjolf start to lift a hand but they snap their head at him and stare. “I'm fine.”

Brynjolf crosses his arms. A weak smile crawls on his lips. “Stubborn as ever, eh?”

“…Weak.” They mumble and look forward.

“Don’t beat yourself up, lassie.” The man’s tone is curt and orderly, far more reflective of his role as second head of the Thieves Guild than of the reserved, compassionate individual they know him as. “Even Kara said—There wasn’t a way to predict what happened. Not unless you’re a God.”

“I,” every syllable and sound hurts to say, but they clench their teeth and force the garbled noises out. “_once_ was. God.”

“Do all dragons think of themselves as deities?” The comment is intended to come across as lighthearted, but it hits a nerve.

They feel color drain from their face. _No, Brynjolf. Only the progeny of the First-Born Son._

They forgot how hard they tried to block out the memories up until the memory resurfaced. It sickens them. They were a terrible creature and they remain such even if the mantle of the sky is torn from their back. The thought makes their eyes water, but they don’t dare speak it. It’s too much for the state they are in. They close their eyes and focus on their breathing. _The closest thing I’ll get to the sky… _

A hand touches their hair and gently tucks it behind one ear. They freeze and stare at the man. They didn’t hear him move, but he manages to scoot over without alerting them. His gaze is a mix of different feelings, but he seems focused on running fingers through their hair. “It’s… a different color, lassie. Not sure you noticed, but…” He glances at their eyes and they feel heat creep into their cheeks. “But it’s nice.”

“Why?” It’s the only word they can say.

His gaze flickers away and his hand leaves. He leans back and looks up. The man looks like he carries too many weights and burdens by the exhaustion they hear in his sigh. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinkin’. Had a lot of time. You’ve been out for weeks.”

Their eyes dim. They suspected as much.

“—I didn’t come by at first. Not more than necessary for Mul. You can thank Kara and Vex for keepin’ you intact after we got back.”

_Vex. The white-haired Imperial woman who wants a knife through my head._

“…Kara took me aside after a couple days. Said something that stuck. You didn’t tell me about you, lassie. I,” when they look, they notice he looks pained. His voice is strenuous. “Went to Kara. Asked her. She told me everything. Even the jester, Cicero.”

_My fool. _It stings to hear the name.

“While I didn’t confer with a _god,”_ the thief inhales deeply. “…I guess I did you the same wrong you did me. _So._ We’ve both done wrong, lassie. Guess we should think ‘bout where to go from here.”

They don’t have much time to think, much less to respond, because Mullokah comes barreling around the corner. He runs up to the two with Clucky trailing lazily behind him. In his hands is a paper bag of sweet-smelling rolls. “I bought _every _single one! Also, a courier came and told me to give you a note. I tried to tip her but she didn’t want money or rolls, Sahkriimir.” The boy sits next to the two and passes a folded piece of paper to them. “You want a roll, Brynjolf?”

“One, little lad.” The Nord grins widely. “But I’ll take extras if you aren’t careful.”

It’s startling how quickly he puts his own walls back up. He’s a man of his own masks, every bit as sneaky and careful an experienced thief ought to be, but they don’t miss the way his mask slips when they reach for Mullokah’s note and brush Brynjolf’s hand in the process. For a second his eyes are on them. They take the folded paper from Mullokah, nod in thanks, and stand.

“Sahkriimir? Where are you going?” The boy tries to get up and follow but Brynjolf puts a hand on his head. “Hey!”

“I think lassie’s getting exercise. You sharing that roll?”

They hear the conversation fade behind them as they take slow, steady steps further and further away. They don’t go far. If their body gives out, they prefer not to have a random citizen of Riften run into them.

They unfold the paper. It’s very tightly and finely pressed into a small square. The parchment smells old and vaguely familiar, but it isn’t until they see the message inside they understand where from. Their blood runs cold at the sight of a black handprint pressed firmly into the sheet.

Beneath it is the greeting: _WE KNOW. _

They know what it means: _the Dark Brotherhood sends its regards. _Their hands begin to shake. Their knees give and they fall to the ground and sit there. Their breathing shortens and they start to hyperventilate. They _can’t _handle it. They can’t handle seeing Cicero again. They can’t handle seeing the old faction they once grew to love. They can’t be Sahkriimir. They can’t be the Listener. They _can’t, _they can’t, they can’t!

They sit on the stone pathway long enough for Mullokah and Brynjolf to notice and come looking for them. Mullokah spies them first and darts forward; they don’t refuse his help to stand, but their balance gives. It’s Brynjolf who catches them and wraps their arm around his shoulder. “Lassie, put your weight on me. C’mon, no arguing. Let’s get you inside and lying down somewhere.”

“Need Kara,” they plead the words. _“Kara!”_

“I’ll run and grab her after you _lay down._” Brynjolf is more stubborn than they are. He eyes the note in their grasp and his free hand snatches it before they can stop him. “…Who sent this? Mullokah, who gave this to you?”

“A nice lady with blond hair. I think she was a Nord. Why? Was it bad? Should I not have done that?” The boy swoops and plucks Clucky from the ground. The chicken doesn’t struggle but accepts her fate as Mullokah clutches Clucky to his chest. “I’m really sorry if I—If I shouldn’t have—”

_“Not your fault.”_ They interject.

“Aye, not your fault. Lassie’s right. C’mon, let’s get them to bed. I need you to keep an eye on them and make sure they don’t run around sittin’ in weird places.” Brynjolf’s voice carries a hint of teasing.

It takes less than an hour for the Nord to return with Kara on his heels. The Dragonborn—the one worthy of the Sky, Oblivion, and Aetherius itself—pushes the door open with a gentleness usually reserved for strange Daedra and white-haired women. Kara’s eyes soften when she looks at them. She wears the Thieves Guild uniform head-to-toe. “Sahkriimir. It’s good to see you up and moving again.”

“Brotherhood,” is all they say from their spot on the bed. They let Kara take a seat next to them and hand her the note.

Her brown eyes narrow. “They finally found your location.”

“What does this mean, lass?” Brynjolf eyes Mullokah from the side. “Is it a conversation for adults only?”

“No. No, he can stay. It’s better to be honest, right? Sahkriimir killed Grelod the Kind months ago.” Kara shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. She crumples the Dark Brotherhood’s note in her hand. “Mul, this won’t make sense to you—But this note _more or less _means the Dark Brotherhood’s watching them. They know Sahkriimir stole the Grelod kill from them. They want them to know the Brotherhood knows. Does—That make sense?”

“Kind of.” The boy frowns and steps to the side. Brynjolf leans against one wall and keeps a sharp watch out the window.

“…What _should _happen is,” Kara turns to them. “You’re going to be kidnapped by Astrid and taken to an abandoned shack in the middle of—”

_“Not letting that happen.”_ Brynjolf cuts the Dragonborn off.

“I will shout your ass to _Oblivion_, Brynjolf, you don’t have a say in the matter.” Kara grits her teeth. She inhales deeply, calms, and carries on as if the man never said anything. “Astrid won’t kill you unless you attack her. I know you know she’s a bitch, but she’s a _powerful _bitch. She’ll slit your throat in two before you blink if she suspects you’re a hostile. You kill one or all three of the hostages present, she’ll think you might be a good assassin, drops you an invitation to join the Falkreath Sanctuary, and then she will let you go.“

“…Alright.” They avert their gaze.

“You won’t have to see Cicero,” Kara assures them. The thirty-one-year-old smiles faintly and runs a hand through their hair. She pauses. “Your hair is a dirty blond now. It’s a good color for you—"

“My _voice _is gone.”

The Dragonborn reels her hand back like their words are a snake. She bites her lip, stands, and frowns. “I know. But we’ll get it back. I promise.”

“Not of the _sky_.” Their words become mournful. They turn their back on the three in the room and curl up in their cot beneath the blanket. _A dragon that cannot fly is a dragon without an identify. _

“When you feel ready,” Kara hesitates. “…Come to the cistern. I need you to tell everyone what happened at that tomb.”

“You know,” _what happened _is what they want to say but their voice gives and they hiss and fight back tears.

“…But everyone needs to hear it from you. Sahkriimir.” Kara states. They hear her turn away. “Brynjolf—I need you to come back, too. Maven Black-Briar’s sent correspondences and I don’t want to alarm you but she’s _Maven Black-Briar _and—”

“I understand, lass. I’ll come by tonight.”

“Thank you.” Kara sounds relieved.

A week later, they have a dream that makes them wake up in tears. They stare blankly at the darkness, the window of their tiny inn room, and at the little light that comes from occasional Hold Guards making rounds across Riften. They sit upright. They can recall every second of the dream, of a beautiful body with white scales and a golden mane and a jaw that has no visible teeth from the outside. They can recall the corpse the body became, the decay that ensued after it crashed into the ground, and their own horrified stare when they realized it was _them_ they looked at.

They go for a walk. It’s night. Guards don’t bother them beyond occasional stares or quick greetings; they wear an extra pair of Kara’s clothes that remains oversized but fits vastly better. They keep to the shadows and the darkness as they trudge back streets and head east. They know the general direction of the docks, and they breathe out in relief at the lack of dock workers present. Their strength has improved, but they still seek a place on the end of one pier to sit and rest. They grimace at how short their form is; their legs can’t reach the waters and they can’t dip their feet in.

_But I could float. _They think back to Lake Honrich, to the weightlessness of the water when they drifted there.

They pause and look around one last time before lowering their body into the lake. There’s no ice beyond a few floating specks, but the water is _freezing _and their arms give out. They drop into the lake with a splash and surface with a gasp. Their body reacts to the sudden temperature shift in _shock: _being drenched in cold water in the middle of winter makes their muscles spasm and their breathing veer out of control. It confuses them why they can’t get a grip over their own _body, _but they _can’t_, and bewilderment sinks to panic when they realize their body’s uncontrollable spasms throw them back under the lake waves.

They hear a splash. When hands grab them, they fight back, but their kicks are weak and their flailing goes unanswered. They try and pull the form under the water, but the grip is much stronger than they are. They lack definite muscle mass.

The Nord pulls them out of the water, up a set of partially-submerged stairs and unto a walkway. They cough and suck in air.

“What were you thinking,” the voice scolds them from nearby. “_Taking a swim in the lake in winter?” _

They rub their eyes and inhale deeply. Their nose burns from water going up it earlier. Their teeth chatter and they wrap their arms around themself. “I—I wanted to _float!”_

Brynjolf stares. “You wanted to _float? _In _freezing waters? Oblivion!_”

Their eyes narrow. They can’t growl, but they hope their glare suffices. They continue to shiver and seethe in too many emotions to count nor understand, “Why are—Are you _here?” _

“I was at the guild, lassie! Wanted fresh air! Talos,” the man curses loudly at their shakes. He picks them up and ignores their squirms and hisses_. “Don’t_ pass out.”

Nords are infinitely more resistant to the cold than others, they remember. The Nordic landwalkers possess an innate resistance to frost magicka. They grimace at the possibility he might be right, that they _might _have had a bad idea. They reluctantly let him carry them through the back alleys and streets, far from the docks, and back to the inn. He drops them on the floor and searches a chest for dry clothes. The man chucks them at them without pause. “Get dressed. You need to warm up, or the cold will take fingers, toes, and your life.”

He speaks with far too much seriousness for them to argue. They stare at him until he leaves the room. They pull off wet, dripping clothes and reluctantly put on the _damn red-orange robes _Brynjolf’s typically seen in during the daytime. Of _course, _the one time they get clothes that fit—They get them soaked and have to resort to wearing his attire. Again. Sahkriimir’s teeth chatter as they pull the robes on like a massive, oversized, _ugly _dress. It sickens them to think of it that way and they immediately correct themself. _Robes. Not a dress. Robes. _

By the time Brynjolf enters the room again they have crawled into bed wearing the godawful clothes and left their sopping wet assemblage on the ground. They glare at him from beneath the covers, but pause when they notice he holds multiple blankets in his arms. He begins piling them on, and on, and on, until they are beneath a mountain of warmth that feels surprisingly… nice.

“…Thanks.” They whisper softly.

The Nord sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He pulls a chair to the bedside and sits. “You can’t be doing that. Talos. If I went to another dock—If I hadn’t heard you—You’d be a frozen corpse in a river. None of us would know what happened to you. None of us would see you again.”

They frown. He’s right, and they detest that, but he is right.

“I _know_,” the Nord’s voice tenses and he watches them. “You said none of _this _matters, lassie. I know you said one day you’ll go back to your Prince of Madness and serve his side. I know—I don’t matter to you. But,” his gaze shifts. It’s _shy_ and somber, just like his voice when he says. “…You matter to me.”

“I didn’t make a pact for _humans_,” they confess the words in a voice that is full of exhaustion and weariness and _guilt_. “I remember now. Brynjolf. I did it for me. To dominate all dragonkind… I would have razed every landwalker to the ground. I am no different than my Blood-Father.” Their voice begins to hurt, and they _know_ they have spoken too much, but they continue. They choose to acknowledge the link they swore they would never stoop to, to throw it out in the open and let the world judge them for it as it does for all their deeds. “—The World Eater.”

His eyes widen. “...That’s—”

“Truth.”

“…I wasn’t expecting that. To hear that.” The Nord rubs the back of his head. He grimaces. “Divines, all nine of them… I don’t know what to say.”

Their eyes dim. They let their head rest on the pillow of the cot. “You deserve truth.”

“Kara. Does she know?” The man glances at them.

“No.”

“Tell her.”

“I will,” they say softly. “…Promise. I just... I want to be honest. With you. About everything.”

The man pauses. “...The months since you and Kara joined have been something else. Don't take offense, lassie, but part of me still can’t believe I’m dealing with this... You, Daedra… Cadha.” Brynjolf grits his teeth and lets out a long, drained exhale. He’s tired.

“Cadha?” They pause.

“My half-sister. I think I found her. Or—I _did_, Talos knows if she lives.” He shakes his head. “Mercer Frey abandoned the guild. Maven Black-Briar wants his head. And I don’t know what—Lassie?” He pauses and looks at them. His eyes become full of concern, deep and overflowing to the point he sits upright and stares.

_Mercer Frey. _Their eyes are full of tears. They clench blankets and the bed. The name alone brings back the agony of the moment, the tearing of their _voice, _the second they fell from the sky.

“He stole it.” They whisper.

“He…” Brynjolf’s breath shudders. They can only imagine what he looks like, perhaps shock or disbelief or rage. Perhaps a knowing look. Perhaps… They don’t know, because the fear of the Nightingales takes over and they turn away and hide under the layers of warm furs and soft blankets.

They break down crying because too many mortal emotions leave their body a cold, tired wreck. They sob because of who they are, what they have been, and what they might become. They wail softly because the sky is not theirs and all of dragonkind, even their Blood-Father, seeks their demise. They can’t think. Their mind reaches the peak of blankness, a white haze that shines whenever they cough or sputter or weep. They don’t acknowledge Brynjolf further, not until the man moves blankets aside and climbs into the cot alongside them. He wraps them in his arms and holds them close. A hand runs through their hair; it’s soothing, perhaps the only thing they feel beyond a lingering numbness. A part of them is vaguely aware he wears dry clothes; they can only assume he changed when he left the room.

He’s warm.

When they calmed to the point they can function again, they shift and turn to face him. His eyes watch theirs; the Nord looks serene against the pillow and blankets. They croak out a, “Thanks..”

“Lassie.” He’s… something. Brynjolf has a look in his eyes. They can’t make out what it is, not even when they move closer.

“I’m sorry,” They mumble flimsily. The sight of his small smile makes their heart leap into their throat. “For… lots of things.”

“Mm.” His eyes reflect acknowledgement.

“Also,” they feel compelled to talk, like an unease will settle if they don’t. Their face feels warm and red dusts their cheeks. “Thanks. Again. For. Yes.”

“For _yes.” _He laughs softly. “Yes, lassie. For yes.”

“For yes,” they may not be of the sky, but they are as stubborn as one of the great flying creatures to grace the winds and rise through clouds. “Yes.”

“Yes.” His forehead bumps theirs. When they huff, he continues softly. “...Forgive me, lassie, but as I recall—We never finished our conversation.”

Their brows furrow. “What conversation?”

“The one where,” he props himself up on one forearm and traces circles in their hair. “I tell you to get off me.”

They stare. Their heart thumps in their ears.

“—And you ask me to stay,” Brynjolf talks softly, but his voice contains an endless amount of warmth. “And then, after _much _deliberation, we decide the _best_ way forward is if _I _kiss _you. _In matters of _pure diplomacy, _lassie. What do you think?”

"I think," They swallow their nerves, “…You should get on that.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

They can feel the grin on his lips when he leans down and kisses them.

They may not have wings, but their heart soars.


	26. hypothetical relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara, brynjolf, and vex discover a lead through complicated means. the chase is on for mercer frey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all for reading  
this chapter is fairly plot-y with a lil bit of drama and fluff

The months after _Winterhold _are stressful. She knows, in part, what to expect but she doesn’t know how to handle the situation as a whole: the Nightingales, sworn protectors of Nocturnal’s Temple and artifacts, cooperating and moving as _one _once again. She despises not predicting it offhand earlier. Kara never anticipated a Daedric Prince accepting a traitor back into the her fold, but Mercer Frey appears to be taken under Nocturnal’s darkness once more. She doesn’t know how to handle him, the lost Skeleton Key, or facing off against _Karliah and Mercer Frey _when the time comes.

“Do you really believe me when I talk about dying in a past universe?” Kara asks Vex one day, when the two are alone and searching Mercer Frey’s former quarters a third time that week. The Dremora’s eyes are sullen and her voice holds hesitation. “…Vex?”

The white-haired Imperial shrugs and picks through dozens of maps, all of Skyrim and surrounding countries. She grimaces at one and shoves it aside. “What I believe is Mercer was _too _much into map-making for his own good. Oblivion, how did he have time for all of this?”

“Skeleton Key.” Kara knows the woman has zero idea what she refers to, but to her amusement Vex nods anyways. “…It’s the Daedric Artifact of Nocturnal, in case you were wondering.”

“I was. Thanks,” The Imperial thief smirks and moves to sort through Mercer Frey’s chests. They were picked apart when the group first got in, but Kara knows both individuals hope to find _something _helpful in the remains.

“Do you, though?” Kara presses the issue while flipping through an old journal of Mercer’s. It doesn’t contain anything recent, and nothing incriminating nor indicative of the present. “…Do you believe me? Vex.” Her eyes flit to the other woman’s form and she frowns.

Vex sighs and shrugs. “Honestly, Kara, I don’t know _what _I believe in anymore. Especially with… Yeah. But I want to believe you. So I’m gonna do my best to, even if it makes no goddamn sense. Okay?” She catches Kara’s brown eyes in her own and the two women smile at each other.

“Good.” The Dragonborn breathes out at last. “Because I don’t know how else to address this. I don’t think Karliah was ever in Winterhold. I think Mercer’s involved. And… I think Mercer’s involved _with _Karliah, with _Nocturnal._ Don’t freak out—That’s the way it is. The way I see it, Vex.”

“…I mean.” She grits her teeth. Her body’s tension peaks with a faint hiss. “I’m pissed enough Mercer _left _us. If the rest of that’s true I got a lot of stabbing to do, Kara.”

“I’ll help,” Kara smiles kindly. “But… But in the meantime. I can’t help but think, Vex. How in Oblivion are we supposed to fight Nightingales with a Skeleton Key?”

“…You really think _Nightingales_ are involved. I thought they were a myth.” Vex blurts out before she can stop herself.

The Dragonborn grimaces and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I thought you believed me!”

“I do—Or I’m _trying _to—But some of the things you say make piss-poor logic—Can you blame me, Kara?” The Imperial woman frowns and walks to Kara’s side. She scowls at Kara’s scowl and the two woman scowl at one another a moment before Kara begins to chuckle and Vex follows with a snort. “Look, let’s not be kids. I’m just _saying_.”

“I know that, and I appreciate your perspective, but that doesn’t change the fact if Nightingales _are _involved we have to deal with two over-the-top magical thieves with decades of combat experience. Neither of us can beat Mercer. I could _shout, _but…” Kara bites the inside of her cheek and winces. _I don’t know if Mercer can shout back. He stole their voice. _

“We’ll deal with it when it happens. Don’t overthink it. At least wait until Brynjolf stops by,” Vex stretches her arms and frowns. Her voice is concerned. “Something I _would _believe is that Niruin and Rune have no sense of direction. Those two boys are probably lost.”

“Or dead.” Kara doesn’t mean to say it but the thought comes out. She clamps a hand over her mouth and Vex shakes her head.

“Yeah, that.” The Imperial woman sighs. “Or they are dead. Let’s go with my idea.”

“…Let’s.” The Dragonborn agrees and the two women leave it at that.

The two stop perusing the former guild master’s room and return to the main cistern. Kara instinctively finds herself looking for Rune’s tuft of brown-hair, or listening for the strum of Niruin’s bow in the training room, but there is nothing. Vex runs off to grab something from the bunk hall while footsteps sound from the entrance corridor. Kara turns around in time to see a very short Nord with a feather-covered creature in _both _hands. Her lips curve up and she smiles in amusement at the young child and his pet chicken.

“Mullokah.” Kara’s smile becomes a grin when the kid runs over. “Fancy seeing you here, _dovahkiin_! What a surprise.”

“Brynjolf said I could stay here if I don’t let Clucky poop on things,” the boy huffs and holds up the sleepy chicken. Kara’s impressed by _Clucky_’s ability to nap with the ruckus. “I promised him. I hope Clucky doesn’t break that promise, or I’ll get into real big trouble.”

“What’s this about trouble, little lad?” Brynjolf’s voice is a breath of fresh air.

The Dragonborn pauses when she sees him emerge from the entrance corridor. She beams when she realizes he’s brought her former _dov _with him. Sahkriimir looks unusually tiny, a feat Kara didn’t know was possible give the form’s natural shortness. The Dragonborn tilts her head to one side and smiles broadly at Sahkriimir. It doesn’t escape her that the latter stands very, very close to Brynjolf, nor does it escape her that the man occasionally looks back to check on them. Part of her feels _warm _and _fuzzy _when she realizes that Brynjolf smiles whenever he and her former _dov_’s eyes meet. It’s disgustingly cute; she wants to point it out but Vex beats her to the chase when the latter finally returns and joins the group.

“Brynjolf! About time! And you brought them, too,” Vex crosses her arms as she walks up. Her frown is evident, but it isn’t directed at anyone; it is merely a _frown_. The Imperial pauses and squints. “Wait. _Wait._ Wait—”

“Vex,” Brynjolf eyes her. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Point out the fact they got half their body hidden behind you? Or maybe it’s the blush on their cheeks because I’m saying these things—” Vex snorts. “You can’t go around making sass without taking shit back, Brynjolf.”

Sahkriimir says nothing. Perhaps it is the best option, because Kara knows the former _dov _struggles to speak as it is.

“Where is everyone?” Brynjolf ignores Vex’s words and glances across the cistern.

“Delvin and Tonilia are in the Flagon,” Vex grimaces. “I think Sapphire’s working the streets—”

“That does not mean what you think it means,” Kara mumbles under breath.

“—And then we have jack shit idea if Rune and Niruin are even _alive_. And we all know that Mercer up and left—”

“Let’s not talk about _him _right now.” Brynjolf cuts off Vex with a solemn tone and pleading eyes.

Kara frowns. She sees how the name alone makes Sahkriimir’s hands shake and their eyes to veer wildly at possible exits. She exhales in relief when the former _dov _calms. She adjusts the angle of her body to partially block Vex from picking up on Sahkriimir’s fingers curling around Brynjolf’s hand when it drops to his side. _If that keeps you calm, good. Better than being a violent, angry, pissed-off Dragonborn. Which you normally are. _

‘Normally’ sounds strange. Kara finds it all surreal how quiet Sahkriimir is in comparison to what she knows and is used to. Her eyes harden in resolve; she fully intends to return the former _dov_’s thu’um and set their record straight.

“I think Vipir’s running a shipment today.” Vex voices on the side. “Is that… That can’t be all of us, surely? Or—”

“It may be. Thieves Guild is dying.” Brynjolf rubs his forehead and sighs.

“Leadership falls to you, second head, so give it some thought and when _everyone _is ready,” Kara glances at Sahkriimir. “…maybe we can touch the subject again. You know the one.”

“Can I help?” Mullokah’s eyes twinkle. Clucky lifts up her tiny chicken head and ruffles her wings in the child’s arms.

“Sure, I don’t see why not.” Brynjolf manages a thin smile. “Perhaps there’s life for us yet. I’ll show you where we should be looking, little lad.”

Vex tails the duo and for once Kara is glad the Imperial woman isn’t at her side. She turns to Sahkriimir’s silent form and strides to them. She takes each of their hands in her own and frowns. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“…Better.” They smile at her, small and quaint but sincere nonetheless. Kara squeezes their hands before releasing them.

The Dragonborn steps back and inhales. “Good. Because. I kind of need you to talk to everyone in a bit. About—” Kara doesn’t need to finish the sentence because she _sees _how Sahkriimir’s face drains of color. She bites her lip. “Hey—Hey. Listen. He’s not here. You’re safe. We’re going to get your thu’um back and make you worthy of the sky or whatever it is you say all the time.”

“He took it. Part of me. He—" Sahkriimir’s hands go to their head. It’s so, _so _unlike everything Kara knows them as. “He _cut it out. _Voice—Soul—Unlocked—”

“Hey—Hey, Sahkriimir, hey, it’s alright, he’s not here, we’re going to find him and kill him and maybe fuck up Nocturnal’s business for working with _him _in the first place,” Kara’s eyes dim. When she notices Sahkriimir’s breathing remains shaky, she takes the former _dov _in arm and hugs them tightly. She’s surprised to feel Sahkriimir rest their head against her. “…I wish none of this happened.”

“Dragonborn,” and it kills Kara inside to hear them not speak in their kin’s tongue, because she knows how much they prefer it. “…I need to tell you something.”

“Okay?” She smiles to encourage them to go on. Kara draws back and moves her hands to their shoulders. They peer up at her with sullen eyes. “What is it?”

“I remembered something about myself. I remembered while… When he,” their eyes water and they grit their teeth. “When he dominated my _voice. _Forced it to… Bend. Yield. I remembered.”

Kara pauses. A memory resurfacing isn’t unheard of, but with Sahkriimir’s ancient age it makes her do a double-take. She narrows her gaze on the shorter figure and bites her lip. “…I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“No. You won’t. I’m sorry.” Sahkriimir looks at the floor.

“Tell me.” Kara grimaces. “Rip the bandage off—Tell me, now, don’t dance around the subject.”

“Dragons are immortal. They only die when their kind kills them… Either as a dragon, or as a Dragonborn,” Sahkriimir’s hands shake. “…I never… really died. Since making a pact—I’m very old. Mullokah calls me an old hag sometimes.”

“…Where are you going with this?”

“I’m _old. _Dragons… They… They reproduce in clutches. But they don’t know their Blood-Father. Blood-Mother. They don’t know _family,_” the word is a whisper and Sahkriimir’s voice contains only pain and fear. “But I do. I know. I think I do. I think I know, Kara. I tried to forget it—I tried to be… I tried to do everything on my _own._” When Sahkriimir inhales deeply, Kara frowns and snaps upright. “…I am… kin of the World-Eater. I think he is Blood-Father.”

“What?”

Sahkriimir’s hands shake. “Alduin—”

_“What?” _Kara blurts out and stares.

“…I didn’t remember until… until _he _took my voice,” they say softly.

Kara throws her hands into the air. “Okay then! Glad we’re airing out all our problems! My dad died of liver failure two months before I wound up in Skyrim! No wonder we’re all fucked in the head! We had zero decent role models and goddamn shit for parental guidance growing up!”

It’s clear the words strike a nerve, but Kara’s patience temporarily wavers. She grumbles and complains under breath up to the point that Mullokah runs back to the two. “Sahkriimir!! Kara!! Brynjolf and the white-hair lady want to show you something! We found a thing in Mercer Frey’s rooms!”

“We have to go? They can’t bring it out here?” Kara huffs.

Sahkriimir remains where they stand. Their face drains of color. Kara stiffens. _…Yeah, they shouldn’t go in there. _

“—Okay, so—Mullokah, you and your chicken keep Sahkriimir company while I go,” the Dragonborn throws the suggestion out while already moving toward the corridor that winds to Mercer Frey’s former chambers. Kara pushes the unlocked door open and finds a complete mess of the insides: things strewn across the ground, floorboards pulled up, everything that could be anything meticulously scrutinized over. It doesn’t escape her the mess of maps spread across all flat surfaces, or the way Brynjolf looms over them rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Vex’s impatient temper quickly makes itself known.

“_Falkreath Hold?_ How does that help?” The white-haired woman grits her teeth.

Kara manages a flimsy smile. “Mind filling me in? I left Sahkriimir outside because I got the impression seeing this would not go over well.”

“Thank you.” Brynjolf nods in gratitude. “Lass, little Vex and I were just talking about Mercer’s old maps. I noticed a trend.”

“…What kind of trend are we talking about here? The kind that might help us find Mercer? Because Maven Black-Briar is not someone I want to piss off. Even if _I _want Mercer’s head, not having his head fast enough might land us in trouble with the Black-Briars.” The Dragonborn grimaces at the thought. She wouldn’t put it past the elite family to send Maul and a couple of Hold Guards to rough up the Guild as a warning.

“These are,” Vex huffs. “Maps of Falkreath Hold. Brynjolf didn’t see them or he’d have mentioned them sooner. _Right, _Brynjolf?”

“Mm.” The Nord crosses his arms and peers at Kara. “Two of these are _old_, lasses. Old enough to go back to the days I wasn’t second-head. Nearly two-decades worth old.”

“To the days of Gallus?” Kara bites her lip when the Nord falls quiet at her words. She adds as an afterthought, “—Sorry.”

“No. No, you’re correct. I can’t dance this subject line. These maps come from the time Gallus was guild master. The fact Mercer held unto them all this time is… It means something. It means he has or had unfinished business in the region,” Brynjolf closes his eyes and sighs. “What that business is… I don’t know. That’s where I’m stuck. There’s writing here—But not a marked location. But you’ve said—You said this world…” He struggles to adequately voice the thought.

Kara offers a supportive half-smile. “Resets?”

“Aye. Resets. If it does, lass, then you… If you come from other _resets_… You might know the writing?” The Nord gestures her over and points at a sprawled-out map across Mercer Frey’s bed. It smells of old paper and faded ink, but Kara can make out a word scrawled lightly in Daedric font.

Her eyes widen. “Mercer knew how to write in Daedric?”

“So it really is that, then…” Brynjolf whistles sharply. “Daedra keep popping up, don’t they? Lovely, lovely.”

“I’d like to stab them all by this point.” Vex growls.

Kara pauses. “…We’ll need to summon a Dremora to read it. I don’t speak Daedric. I mean—I don’t _think _I do. Do we know if anyone here has the ability to conjure a _Daedra?_ I’m asking a lot—Maybe we can hire one in the pubs across Riften?”

“Can’t, no money. Delvin and I checked the vaults. Needed to, to confirm Mercer’s involvement in abandoning the guild,” Brynjolf’s voice dips into a low tone. “…And his… willingness to do something so cruel to one of his own.”

“You suspected him before now?” Vex raises an eyebrow.

“Money doesn’t go missing for _twenty years_ without cause. Even if… The man’s a brother. I have responsibilities to the guild, little Vex, I can’t throw that away,” Brynjolf’s fists clench tightly. “…But I’ll confess, I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t pursue it like I should’ve. If I had then maybe—” He cuts himself off before the words tumble out, but Kara understands the sentiment all the same.

Her eyes soften. “It’s not your fault for what Mercer did—To the guild or to Sahkriimir.”

“I am not consoling you again,” Vex walks over and points a finger in Brynjolf’s face. “If you get mopey on me. Ansilvund was bad enough.”

He brushes the woman’s hand away. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Oh. Wait. Wait a moment,” Vex’s eyes widen and she throws her hands up in the air. She curses in triumph and looks wildly from Kara to Brynjolf. “I just remembered something. Kara—You had the spell tome you forgot about? The one to summon a Dremora?”

“I… maybe? Did I? Did we really get to the bottom of that? Because all I remember is something along the lines of that one Mage summoning a Daedric Prince and him giving me a migraine. And… Something along those lines?” Kara rubs the back of her head. She straightens upright and shrugs. “I guess I did? What about it? I don’t know the spell anymore, Vex. I don’t know if my magicka would even work with it. My magicka’s been… _weird _since that trip to Solitude.”

“—But I think—I think—Didn’t Sahkriimir take the book? Steal it or shit? Which, Oblivion, that goes against one of the guild rules, _way to stay on top of them _Brynjolf,” Vex huffs the words and squints at the man. She turns back to Kara. “—We should ask if Sahkriimir knows the spell.”

“Is that the best idea?” Kara frowns. “They’re still healing.”

“Do you have a better idea? We need this information! Oblivion, I’ll ask them myself if you two won’t.” Vex grits her teeth. “It’s been _weeks _without any sighting of Mercer Frey or Karliah. You think those two are dilly-dallying all the way to wherever they’re going? And since Maven Black-Briar’s bitchin’ nonstop about Mercer’s head—We _really _need to get on any leads possible.”

“I’ll ask them.” Brynjolf exhales sharply and walks out the room.

Kara turns to Vex and grimaces. “Your way of persuasion is less persuasive opposed to forceful.”

“I’m pissed. I want Mercer Frey dead. You don’t fuck with the Thieves Guild, Kara, you don’t—This place is _our _home, our livelihoods!”

“But you could show some more sympathy.” The Dragonborn frowns.

“I _have been showing sympathy _since we started the trip back from Winterhold! You think this doesn’t mess with me? What, is it ‘cause everyone sees me as the big, bad bitch? The one with bite and bark and teeth and claws? That _just _because I curse and steal and rage I’m immune to this disaster Mercer left us in?” Vex’s hiss is angry and pained and full of resentment and bitterness. It is also full of relief. “Guess what, Kara? _I’m not oblivious. _I notice things as well as everyone else.”

“I never said you didn’t! Gods, Zeus, _Artemis_—”

“Those aren’t even Divines!” The white-haired woman snaps.

Kara’s eyes narrow. “Not from _your _world, Vex. Things aren’t the same where _I _am from.”

“And where is that, exactly? Where is this mythological place you call home? Because sometimes I think you’re making it all up, Kara,” the Imperial thief’s fists clench. She shuts her eyes and hisses. “It doesn’t make sense. Oblivion, you don’t make sense. _You_ don’t make sense to me.”

“…Ah. That’s… That’s what it is,” the Dragonborn’s eyes darken. She doesn’t offer Vex further words; she strides out of the room and navigates back to the main cistern. There she finds Mullokah mid-demonstration with Clucky; the young boy has taught the chicken how to _fetch _and failing miserably to prove it. But not even the sight of a dozing chicken and flabberghasted child can cheer her up. She walks to Brynjolf and Sahkriimir; it doesn’t escape her how close the two stands together. But that isn’t the thought on her mind. She grits her teeth and eyes Brynjolf up. “So?”

“…I can try it.” Sahkriimir answers the Dragonborn. It annoys Kara to no end to hear her former _dov _be so _compliant. _

“Try it, then. Better than nothing.” Kara looks to the side. She glares at Vex when the other emerges from the corridor.

Sahkriimir’s weak form shudders. They are nervous. Kara feels bad for snapping, but she holds her tongue on any apologies. _Maybe afterward. _

After a wary glance at Brynjolf, and subtle reassurance in the Nord’s soft smile, Sahkriimir turns and holds their breath. It’s clear they strain; the second the conjuration spell begins to dig into their magicka stores, their body shudders and spasms. Brynjolf helps hold them up while beads of sweat roll down their forehead. They grit their teeth and try again. And again. And again. The spells fail; eventually exhaustion is too much for them and they collapse against Brynjolf. He helps hold them up. “It was worth a shot, lassie.”

_“I can do it,_” they are a stubborn… not a _dov_, but a stubborn creature nonetheless. “I can. One more time.”

“Woah, woah, let me get you some magicka potions first.” Kara sighs. “…If we even have any.”

“Our potion stocks are shot.” Vex answers. Kara glares at her.

“Then we should _un-shot _them. Or make a new potion. Or—” The Dragonborn sucks in a deep breath. “Alright. Sahkriimir, just try again. Since it appears none of us can do _anything else_.”

“Don’t push yourself too much,” Brynjolf’s eyes soften when he looks at Sahkriimir. Kara finds it sickening in her current state of mind; she visibly grits her teeth. Sahkriimir’s faint blush makes Kara want to scream but she restrains herself.

“I know.” Kara’s former _dov _mumbles and looks away. “One more time. Let me try one more time.”

They do.

A sphere of violet magic _explodes _in the middle of the guild cistern. It leaves Sahkriimir keeling over in agony as their magicka expands the sphere of conjuration magic. Unholy, dark cries begin to sound. Alcohol wafts through the area. A Dremora in a butler steps out, meets Sahkriimir’s gaze, and pauses. “…The _zaam mey tiid! _Greetings! How may I be of assistance today?” The Dremora pauses and looks across the cistern. His eyes light up with mirth and he bows at Kara. “Lady Kara! A pleasure to see you again, my Lady! I will inform Lord Sanguine you are well; his concern for you is endless—”

“I am not entirely sure where I stand on this supposed, _hypothetical _relationship between me and—A _Daedra—_So—Just—Don’t bring it up right now, Dremora.” Kara grits her teeth. “We need you to read something. Or—Try to.”

“Oh, _of course, _I am always delighted to assist you, my Lady! You and my summoner, who, coincidentally enough, happens to be the _zaam mey tiid! _How exciting!” Sullivan beams and reflects a grin so genuine it might as well be _mortal. _

With Brynjolf occupied keeping Sahkriimir from collapsing into a heap on the floor, Mullokah having run off to look for snacks, and Kara unwilling to peer at Vex again, she opts to walk the entire length back to Mercer Frey’s quarters, retrieve all the maps she saw Brynjolf point out, and walk all the way back. Kara unrolls the maps and holds one up. She begrudgingly shoves a second map at Vex to unroll and hold up side-by-side. Sullivan strides to the women and looks from one map to the next. Occasionally, the Dremora will tap his chin or hum in consideration. After several minutes, he draws back and declares. “It is Daedric! Specifically, the words used spell out _Twilight Sepulcher. _If I recall, this is said to be the location of a portal to a plane of Oblivion.”

“Nocturnal’s plane. The Evergloam.” Kara curses. “Of course. How could I forget? That’s—Gods, that’s inconvenient. We need a Nightingale to get inside.” The woman grimaces. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but we desperately need to find Karliah and convince her to abandon Nocturnal and aid us—Or one of us needs to become a Nightingale.”

“What does that entail, lass?” Brynjolf raises brows and stares at her.

“Nightingales swear their soul to Nocturnal. It’s… transactional, a contract. You defend the Twilight Sepulcher after death. But you sell your soul to Nocturnal. There’s no outs of that contract,” Kara frowns. “Karliah and… her _buddy _are probably… They are probably already at the Sepulcher, aren’t they? If not done with it?”

Sahkriimir stiffens. They eyes land on her. “What are you saying?”

“Your thu’um might be harder to get back than I thought,” Kara runs a hand through her hair. She ignores Sahkriimir’s sharp exhale and continues. “But that’s a lead, still. Right, Brynjolf? You said any lead would help?”

“…Aye, lass,” Brynjolf releases Sahkriimir and glances at them briefly before looking back at Kara. “Those two maps… They don’t have a definite position marked out. Only a general region. Perhaps _he _never found this Sepulcher.”

“This is a really vague lead to go off of.” Vex folds the map up. "I really wish we had more options."

“Only lead we have, Vex. Three of us should make haste to Falkreath Hold. I’ll speak with Delvin and have him hold down the fort here—”

“Three? What do you mean _three?”_ The words come from Sahkriimir. Though faint, they are surprised enough to make Brynjolf stop mid-sentence. Sahkriimir stares at him intensely. “Brynjolf.”

The man frowns. “You’re still recovering.”

“And?” They stare.

“Brynjolf’s right, you’re _recovering_. This’ll be dangerous. We got to deal with a lot of shit on the way there, there, and the way back from _there_, we don’t need extra liabilities dragging us down,” Vex’s curt words flip the atmosphere in the cistern on its head. The Imperial thief doesn’t seem to care about Sahkriimir’s increasingly furious expression.

_“Liabilities?_” Sahkriimir snaps at everyone in the cistern. “Is _that_ what I am to all of you?”

“Gods, Sahkriimir—Don’t spin it out of context! It’s not… _Vex _here makes a shitty point but it’s a legitimate one. You _are _healing,” it pains the Dragonborn to agree with Vex when she’s still pissed off at the other woman, but she does so. She tenses and exhales. “Besides. I think it would do you good to spend time with the tiny _dovahkiin_.”

“My Lady, my summoner, do either of you two need further assistance or—” Sullivan looks across the cistern.

Sahkriimir snaps at him. “Tell Sanguine to fuck himself.”

“I will happily do so and state it is a thought hand-delivered by you, my summoner,” Sullivan bows. “Will that be all?”

“No. Walk with me.” Sahkriimir looks to the side, at Brynjolf. Their eyes dim. “…I do not want to be a liability anyways.”

“You’re not a—Hold on, _l__assie—”_ Brynjolf frowns and all individuals in the cistern observe Sahkriimir trail off with Sullivan on their heels.

“We should try to leave tomorrow. Faster the better, both of you,” Kara nods. “I know… Sahkriimir was _supposed _to discuss things like Mercer Frey… I don’t know if they are in the right mood to do so anymore.”

“I doubt there’s anything to discuss, lass. Not at this point. Even without—Without addressing Ansilvund. We know Mercer Frey abandoned the guild and raided the vaults.” Brynjolf frowns. “Let’s not put lassie through more than necessary. Leaving tomorrow sounds… manageable. I’ll get affairs in order.”

“If Mercer isn’t there—We’re fucked, Brynjolf. Kara. Maven Black-Briar will have our heads.” Vex looks to the side.

“Oh, trust me,” Kara sighs. “I don’t doubt it for a second. Which is why Mercer needs to be there and we got to take him out. Or bring him alive to Maven. That’s probably worse than any death at our hands. I’d like to think I’m merciful in quick kills but my patience has its limits.”

“I fully intend to gouge out his organs and let him bleed,” Vex voices the blood-thirst she feels.

The Dragonborn snorts. “I’m sure he’ll give you plenty of opportunities to try it. If I know one thing—Mercer Frey’s got an ego bigger than his head.”


	27. (smut) once winter ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sahkriimir apologizes to brynjolf. the two discuss where they stand in relation to one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's got to be marked smut bc there's a tiny bit of it  
but it is primarily fluff  
and a bit of darker stuff later on  
and then fluff again 
> 
> warning for:  
-theres a brief mention of child abuse when sahkriimir sees the scar on brynjolf's back  
-there's a flashback to ansilvund later on and its not pleasant
> 
> read with care  
love u all

The same evening they summon Sullivan for the first time, they wind up tucking Mullokah into bed. It comes after two hours of the boy babbling nonstop of how proud he is of Clucky for _finally _learning that ‘fetch’ does not mean ‘eat.’ It’s not a bad time; Sahkriimir finds everything amusing. The young kid has a solid head on his shoulders and they want only the best for the tiny Dragonborn. When the young boy finally begins to doze off, they stand up and give Clucky a light scratch under the neck; the chicken’s eyes shut, utterly content with the world.

When they finish gathering a few things, they make to leave the bunk hall only to find Brynjolf waiting for them. The tall Nord offers a kind smile but no matter how nice it is to stare at, they are still frustrated with how things went earlier. Out of attempts to demonstrate respect and an awareness for their actions, they stride to his side and peer at him behind a stack of books held to their chest. “Brynjolf.”

“You’re doing a good job with him,” Is what the man comments on. He leans against one wall and glances further into the bunk hall, in the direction of an exhausted child.

“He said it helps him sleep when he’s sad. It’s something his Blood-Mother did before she passed.” Sahkriimir averts their gaze. “But… I’m not his mother. I’m not a _lady_, Brynjolf.”

“Nor a lad, if I recall,” the man’s subtle grin makes them squint at him. “I try to remember important things about those I care about, lassie.”

Sahkriimir inhales deeply. “…About that. Brynjolf. I am sorry. For walking out of the… conversation. Earlier.”

“You still can’t come,” Brynjolf states firmly. “Even Kara agrees, lassie, you need more time to heal.”

They grimace. “I’m not asking to come, Brynjolf. But…”

Divines, they don’t know the right mortal words to describe what they want to say. No, they most definitely _do _know them, but they can’t think of them. Their thoughts have the tendency to spiral chaotically when trying to address _their _own _tendencies. _They wring their wrists and exhale sharply.

“I,” Sahkriimir bites their lip. They try again. “I’m not… mad. Angry. I’m not that,” they seek out Brynjolf’s gaze, and find his eyes soften on their form. “I’m… sad. And… frustrated? Frustrated, Brynjolf. I see I am lashing out. But it’s not your fault. Or—Kara’s fault. Or Vex’s fault. It’s not their fault for when I am… sad. Frustrated. I’m sorry. For… lashing out. Walking away. Not handling things like how mortal adults are meant to.” They flinch in surprise when he draws them into a long, warm hug. After a moment, they relax and lean into it. The proximity is a comfort they don’t want to let go of, but when he draws back, they do likewise. A thought crosses their mind. They bite their lip. “Brynjolf.”

“Lassie.” His voice teases. It’s very gentle, something they like about him. He’s a very capable man and an excellent thief, but his softer side makes their soul feel happy.

“That night at the inn—” They feel their own face heat up. They are satisfied when the Nord pauses. They are _far _beyond amused when they see a faint blush on his cheeks. “—You said something that was wrong.”

“…Well, I know I said a lot of things that evening,” Brynjolf’s grin is pleasant. Perhaps a bit cheeky, but they aren’t bothered by it. “Some good, some bad. What I say wrong?”

They answer the question by walking off, but when he doesn’t follow, they pause and look over his shoulder expectantly. He raises a brow. When he reaches their side, they run a hand through their hair absentmindedly and glance up at him. “I should have cut you off when you said it. It was wrong not to do so. But I did not. So, I wanted to rectify it now.” They must sound serious, because when they look at him they find he’s fallen quiet.

Brynjolf and them stand at the middle of one corridor, half-and-half between the main cistern and the bunk hall. The private chambers of Vex, Brynjolf, and Delvin are lined up in a neat row.

“You said I didn’t care. And I know it is because _I _said it. But I was wrong, and it was wrong, because it is very far from the truth,” they glance at the side and inhale deeply. “I care a lot about you. Kara. Mullokah. Sometimes even the chicken,” they snort and shake their head. “But you matter a lot to me. I’m… how would you put it? Awfully fond of you.” They nod. Even if it’s not like them, they can’t help but the delightful bubble that forms in their stomach at the thought. They smile faintly. “I am awfully fond of you, Brynjolf.”

When he doesn’t respond, they pause and glance back at him. They are left stunned at how ecstatic the man is. Nothing short of joy lights up his eyes and reflects the most adoring gaze they’ve ever seen on Mundus, short of Cicero’s. Brynjolf is not a jester, but they find they are okay with the man outside a motley. They gasp in surprise when he picks them off their feet and spins them around. When he sets them down, his hands go to their shoulders and he exhales in delight. His mouth opens to say anything, but he can’t find words to say, and instead he stares at them until the man leans down and kisses them. It’s every bit electrifying as any of his touches are; they can feel his smile when he draws back but an inch.

_“Talos,”_ the man whispers against their lips. “You have _no _clue how happy I’m to hear that, lassie.”

Their lips betray their smile. “All who walk the land are… a very strange bunch.”

“I can live with strange.” His smile becomes a grin and Brynjolf takes his time slowly leaning into another kiss. Each one holds as much want for proximity as the last, but they also do something else. They can feel the tiny fire lit in their abdomen, their thoughts tracing back to a lake bank, to shouting, to…

“Brynjolf—” They mumble flimsily and pull away. They feel him wrap his arms around their waist. Their entire face reflects a cherry tomato. They look up at him and force words out before they become lost in his hazel eyes or messy hair or any one of the things they like about him. “Lake. Lake Honrich.”

That is _not _what he expects them to say, if the confusion on his face is anything to go off of.

They clarify, “The banks of Lake Honrich. Do you remember—”

“Anything involving you when I’m not drunk? Of course.” Brynjolf states without pause.

“There was,” they feel out of place saying the words. Technically, without a _voice, _they are not considered dragon by any means. They are barely even a landwalker in their skin. They avert their gaze to one side and frown. The thoughts drag them down, but they opt to share anyways. “…When I was _dragon_—Dragonborn? When I was like that—When I had a _voice_—Something happened there.”

“…With me? Was this before I was in the picture?” He’s _very _confused now.

In a way, it’s almost adorable. They feel bad for finding it endearing.

“It was when you pinned me,” they elaborate quickly. “When I was tearing at my own flesh. I used a shout. I do not remember it now, but I was nigh the point of shouting you.”

The man releases them. He crosses his arms. “Lassie, what’s this about? That’s not a pleasant memory to wrap your head ‘round.”

“Dragons abide by old customs and rules. I remember _those. _There is one dubbed the rite of combat,” this part comes easier, as they find the memories of what they once were to be bittersweet. “—It is… the way dragons _court _others. When a worthy suitor approaches—They engage in combat. A battle of philosophy, a show of physical might, and demonstration they deserve to be called a _mate_. Equal. Lake Honrich—"

Brynjolf begins to laugh. His arms drop to his side and he grins sheepishly. “Lassie—Are you saying—”

“I was not Dragonborn! It… counted, in a way. Do not—Do not let it go to your head.” They huff loudly. “I could… eventually beat you.”

“Do you know close-quarter combat?” At their pause, he ruffles their hair. “Thought so.”

“I would eventually win.” Sahkriimar gawks at the man when he smiles in amusement. “I was Listener of the Dark Brotherhood in another life.”

“I ought to ask Delvin ‘bout that,” Brynjolf rubs his chin and frowns. “He’s former Brotherhood. Did I—Did I mention that before?”

“We are getting off-track,” Sahkriimir grimaces and stares up at him. Their black eyes narrow. “I was merely pointing out… That _you _are worthy of the sky. Equal. But now superior, in a way, because you were equal to me as a dragon. But I am not a dragon anymore.” Their eyes darken.

“Why did you tell me all this, lassie? Out of curiosity,” the Nord leans down to their eye level and blinks. “It seems very sudden.”

Their face flushes deeply and they find the floor very interesting.

“…Sahkriimir?” His tone dips from humored to concerned.

“…What would you call us?” They ask softly.

“Us as in a pair? Hmm,” Brynjolf smiles faintly. “A very good-looking Nord and equally good-looking individual who likes to claim people are strange and then call them fools.”

“I am serious.” They grumble.

“…I don’t know. Even when guild members demonstrate certain acts of intimacy,” the man straightens upright and pauses. “I imagine most use the same terms familiar to them. Why complicate a simple matter? Why? Were you,” his smile returns and it is every bit as amused as it is giddy. “Thinking of calling _me _something, lassie?”

“What should I call you?” They ask the question with such a solemn tone that the man snorts and shakes his head.

“You must be thinkin’ a term, or else you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Mate.” Sahkriimir says the word softly. “It is what… I would have wanted to call you. If I was still dragon.”

“Mate.” Brynjolf sounds it out. He whistles softly. “Sahkriimir’s _mate.”_

“When you say it like that—It sounds less fearsome. More shoddy.”

“You are _far_ from shoddy,” His hands wrap around their waist again. He leans down again and whispers into one ear, “—But a sliver fearsome.”

The words make them smile faintly. It’s strange to reflect on how they have come to view Brynjolf. He is a very funny man, one they feel quite smitten with. They can’t help relaxing in his touch; the individual leans against them and balances books on one arm so the other can hug him. They know he doesn’t anticipate it, because they feel his body briefly tense before the man exhales in delight. For a moment the two linger there with only the sound of heartbeats in ears to make noise.

_I wouldn’t mind staying like this forever. _

Their eyes dim. “I’ll miss you while you’re away.”

“I can’t be gone too long. Got to get Maven what she wants.” Brynjolf says. When they draw back to look at him, his eyes fill with warmth. “Besides—I’d miss you too much.”

“Can I,” they hesitate. Saying the words makes them flustered. They swallow their nerves and continue. “Stay with you tonight?”

“It’s not a very big cot.” The man chuckles. “You’d be squished—"

“—Against you,” Sahkriimir cuts him off. “There are worse things in the world. Like… not being squished against you.”

“Well,” Brynjolf leans down and steals a kiss from them before releasing them and gesturing. “If you insist, lassie, I won’t try and stop you.”

His room is a lot cleaner than they expect. _Then again… it’s been weeks. Months? Since I saw it. Not since before… all of this. _They hold back any comments.

It’s a nice room. Quaint, with almost everything in its own place. A humble candle rests on a ceramic plate and offers a soft, dancing light. The cot is indeed small—though large enough for two to squeeze in together—but Sahkriimir finds it satisfactory. They blink in surprise at a tiny—utterly teeny—bookshelf to the right of the cot. They kneel near it, put their books down, and pull out one faded tome. The title makes them scoff and call over their shoulder, _“The Lusty Argonian Maid?”_

“It’s a classic.” Brynjolf retorts. He’s a busy man; what papers are left out are quickly put into a neat pile to review later. He puts away used quills and inkwells into a short desk. Any dirty apparel goes into a bin in the corner, something that Sahkriimir never considered but certainly finds innovative. Brynjolf rifles through two armoires and chucks a large shirt and breeches at them. They sputter when the clothes hit them in the face. They don’t _hear _him laugh, but they can feel his amused grin from a mile away while they peel the clothes off their head and hold them up. Brynjolf nods their way. “You need night wear, but I don’t have anything on hand that’s your size. Those’ll do, I imagine. But you should ask Tonilia for a uniform tomorrow.”

When they opt to change in front of him—never again donning the ghoulish red-orange robes, _never_—the thief turns away. “Let me know when you’re done.”

“I’m done,” they huff. “Your shirt could be a dress on its own.”

When Brynjolf turns around, he whistles softly. “…_Talos_. You make me look bad in my own clothes.”

They make a point of chucking the padded red-orange robes at him. “That is easy enough on your own.” They look away while the man undoes the different pieces of his armor and peels the leathers off. When he clears his throat, they take it as a sign it’s okay to look. They flush bright red at the realization he’s shirtless. Brynjolf calmly folds the garment and laughs at their ogling.

“Like what you see?” His voice is far from innocent.

“You have many scars.” Sahkriimir gaze lingers on him when Brynjolf strides forward. They instinctively move to the side to make room for him. “Where are they from? Do most landwalkers possess these?”

“If they live long enough, one or two are bound to come up.” Brynjolf pulls up the blanket until they’re settled in on their side. He lays next to them and Sahkriimir greedily yanks the blanket to their side. The thief pulls it back and inadvertently brings Sahkriimir with the quilt. Their forehead bumps his chin and he snorts, “_Really_, lassie? In my own room? With my own blanket?”

“I get cold.” Is their begrudging excuse.

“Then hold unto me.” Brynjolf smiles. “I’m much warmer than…” The man’s form tenses. He goes quiet as Sahkriimir’s fingers slowly ghost over a lengthy scar that extends off one shoulder and down his torso, stopping just short of his navel. Sahkriimir’s lips dip into a frown.

“Who did this?” They ask quietly.

“That one?” Brynjolf shrugs. “Happened… what? Seven years back? I was _interrogated _by Hold Guards north, in Windhelm. They weren’t too pleased ‘bout the Guild’s bribes. Wanted something extra. Couldn’t give it to them, it was a bad year.”

“I should have burnt Windhelm to the ground.” Sahkriimir grits their teeth.

Brynjolf’s laugh is loud. He quickly asserts, “You can’t solve all your problems with fire.”

“If I could, I would.” They turn their gaze to another scar. This one is partially hidden in the crook of Brynjolf’s neck, where the solid line wraps around from his chin down to the bottom-right of the skin over where they assume is a vein or his windpipe. “This one looks… Newer.”

“A year before you and Kara joined—Rune and I were in the process of negotiating a cut of profits between the Thieves Guild and a mining company. They didn’t agree with what we offered and gave us an offer we couldn't refuse. It wasn’t as deep as it looks; more of a long scratch that scarred.” Brynjolf’s lips curve up. He watches each new movement, as their hands trail down again. They trace an old, faded series of jagged lines across his right pectoral. “Pub fight. Broken mead mugs hit harder than they look. I was a hothead when I was younger.”

“How old are you?” They pause and meet his gaze.

He smiles. “Not polite to ask a lad his age, lassie.”

“Is it really?” Sahkriimir stares in surprise. When Brynjolf laughs, they huff and draw their hands away. “You take advantage of the fact I am not used to certain… _trends_. In creatures of the land. Despicable.”

“Forty-one,” the man clarifies. “Or will be, once winter ends.”

“You’re so _young,”_ Sahkriimir can’t resist grinning wickedly and jabbing the man in the side. “I have several thousand years on you.”

“Only a couple thousand years, I’ll catch up to you soon enough.” Brynjolf replies without skipping a beat. “Didn’t Mullokah call you an old hag?”

“He did and continues to do so.” They lay their head on the pillow and watch him. “He will miss you, too.”

“I’ll miss both of you.”

“And the chicken.”

“’Course, _as if_ I could forget _Clucky_,” Brynjolf leans over and kisses their forehead. He turns to face the other side and stills. “The candle’ll run out of wick in a few. Good night.”

They cannot explain why the simple action makes them so restless, but combined with the two words—_good night, _he’s courteous—they stare at his back and eye another set of scars. Three of them are small ones near his left shoulder-blade. The fourth is _long _and it makes Sahkriimir stare. The tissue looks discolored, as if the pigmentation of the skin itself was altered. It appears as an off-red, closer to orange, and when they reach out and touch it Brynjolf exhales sharply.

“…Magic-user.” The man states. “I was a kid. It never… fully healed.”

“…Honorhall Orphanage. The former headmistress?” Sahkriimir feels a furious ember blaze in their chest, but they refuse to let the anger take over. “I’m sorry you went through that.”

“Past is the past now. Got me where I am today.”

“Does it hurt if I touch it?” They frown.

“Not _hurt_, but it… It’s hard to describe. Magical wounds leave strange marks. I would call it,” the man pauses briefly to consider the right word. _“Tender_. But it won’t hurt me. I’m tough to crack.”

Sahkriimir hesitates. Then, slowly, with perhaps too much pounding in their ears, they lean forward and press a kiss to the old scar. It’s an asinine idea, but part of them wants to replace all the bad memories with pleasant ones. When Brynjolf’s breathing hitches, they kiss it again, just as gently as the last. The man must know what they are doing; they can feel the changes in his breathing and the tension that enters his form. They pause back long enough to ask. “Is that… Okay?”

_“Talos,_ yes,_”_ the thief turns over to face them. He leans down and kisses them. They kiss him back just as eagerly. When their hands caress his face, he shudders and hisses under his breath. By the time either of them know what they’re doing, he’s on top of them and looking down with hesitancy. “Sahkriimir. If we continue this—”

“I know,” is their response. They pull him down for another kiss, but he stops and draws back. They frown and peer at him. “Why?”

“Is it what you really want?” The man asks softly. “We don’t have to continue.”

Sahkriimir huffs. “I will start taking off clothes if that gets the point across.”

“I’m _serious, _lassie,” Brynjolf exhales sharply. “I don’t want you to have any regrets.”

“I won’t.” Their eyes reflect many emotions, they imagine. “I did not ask a god of debauchery to show me a sex dream out of curiosity. I,” they realize a second into the spiel that they picked a terrible example, but they were once a stubborn dragon and stubborn they remain. “—I wanted to know if… If you thought of me that way. If you also…” Their face heats up and they look to the side. “Felt like that toward me. Like I feel toward you.” They relax when the Nord kisses them in response.

“If you’re sure.” Brynjolf’s hands caress their cheeks and jawline. “I’ve been… thinking ‘bout this since we met.”

“Snow elf stunt.” Sahkriimir snorts at the memory. They huff when Brynjolf presses a kiss to their lips. “—It was a terrible idea—”

“If they hadn’t seen your ears,” his hands know their way around his own attire, because he makes for the shirt Sahkriimir dons and pulls back long enough to tug it over their head and off their body. The Nord tosses it aside and resumes planting kisses along their lips, their cheek, and their chin. His hands move lower and trail beyond their collarbone, dipping down to the curve of their breasts. “It would have gone off without a hitch. Shame your ears gave it away.”

They open their mouth to speak but when his fingers massage their chest, they draw in a sharp breath. It feels good—Far, far better than any leader of the Stormcloaks or former guild master ever could. Brynjolf’s hands are delicate and slow in tracing circles and lightly massaging the skin. They sigh in delight at the sensation. They can feel electricity run up and down their spine whenever his fingers brush a nipple. When he rubs the tips of them, they can’t stop the moan that slips out of their lips. The man looks nothing short of _pleased _by the reaction. He kisses them again before his mouth starts to follow the path of his hands.

But when his lips kiss the soft flesh of their neck, they freeze.

Their mind dissociates from their body in a spike of mind-numbing panic.

“Lassie?” Brynjolf notices the change in their demeanor immediately. He stops, draws back, and looks at them in concern. They don’t know what _they _look like, but it’s enough to make color drain from Brynjolf’s face. “Sahkriimir—” He sits up and draws them close, not to escalate things but to hold them. His hands run soothingly up and down their back, but they don’t register the sensations beyond faint, light touches. “Hey. Hey. It’s alright. He’s not here. He won’t lay a hand on you again, I promise.”

_“Y’know,” _it’s a flashback and they can’t hear him anymore. Their mind is in a different place, once again at Ansilvund and that pillar. They cannot move. They can only see the shadows of the Nordic tomb, and the two Nightingales present inside it. _“I didn’t think it would be this much trouble. Just—Cut a throat and be done with it. Looks like dragons aren’t just flying reptiles with too much time on their hands after all.”_

_“Mercer. Don't drag it out. Get it, let's go.” _The voice is Karliah, and though she isn’t actually there they still find themself silently begging for her to do something.

_“I’m trying, Karliah, I thought you would be able to see that!” _Mercer’s growl is as real and vivid as they are.

They can’t fight the guild master when he pulls back and plunges the Skeleton Key into their neck. It cuts into their flesh but the Daedric magic powering the artifact immediately seeks to mend their body around the curve of the key’s teeth. In their mind they scream and thrash and plead but the teeth of the key continue to dig deeper until it no longer pierces their body but their _soul_. They try and breathe fire, breath frost, bend its will and make it repent for daring to think it could ever defeat a _dragon_, but the teeth pierces their dragon spirit and renders them immobile. Gears begin to twist and turn inside the Skeleton Key’s inner mechanisms.

The Daedric Prince’s artifact is full of darkness. It enshrouds their body and encapsulates their form while unseen hands pull their head backward. Their golden mane splays violently around their form. They can’t move. When a dark figure’s fingers rip off scales and peel skin from their skin, they can only beg for mercy in their head. When the nails begin to gouge through soft tissue and muscle the sounds increase until they are sure their head will cave in from the pressure of their own mental cries. They feel every last nerve, every last string of smooth veins and arteries as the darkness takes all in its many hands and tugs. Their body is forced to remain still as stone as the pain leads them to not see the dark—only white. Their mind blankets the world in a white emptiness, and they can’t move. They can’t scream. Fingers dip deep inside their form, reaching into their eye sockets and crawling underneath. The talons and claws scrape against their skull and fill their head with a grinding noise as they probe deeper and squirm through veins and arteries. It comes to a head when the unseen entity begins wrapping talons the ancient gift of the Patron-Deity, that which fuels all they are and what the world means to them. Without a care for their internalized pleas and begging, they feel their voice be _gouged _out of the strings of the Patron-Deity’s blessing. Not even the Skeleton Key can hold their body down as it convulses. They sob in grief.

_“I think this might be it.” _Mercer tells the other Nightingale._ “But one more time—Just to make sure._”

They don’t know how long the scene loops. At one point, they become vaguely aware of something draped over their body. Their mind flickers back to their landwalker form. They come to with their heart pounding in their chest and ears and throat. Beads of sweat roll off their forehead. They see candles lit nearby, on a humble bookshelf. It takes a long, panic-inducing minute to realize they are in Brynjolf’s room.

“Brynjolf?” They call out softly.

“I’m here,” they find the man is fully-dressed in dark leather armor. He’s sitting on the ground against the wall opposite the cot. They stare in confusion. Brynjolf frowns and his eyes dim. “I’m sorry, lassie.”

“What happened?” Sahkriimir tries to sit upright but finds their wrists are bound to the cot frame. Their brows furrow. “Brynjolf, what is this?”

“You… don’t remember? This entire night? These past hours?”

Their eyes water. “Did I hurt someone?”

“No, though you almost got a few swings in.” The man looks at his feet. “I tried to dress you before—Getting Kara. Though you might want some dignity preserved.”

“Thanks.”

“She told me,” Brynjolf frowns. “She thinks you had a flashback. Or—Were having one. And that,” his face falls and he clenches his eyes shut. “…Me touching your neck—Caused it.”

Sahkriimir’s stomach twists into knots.

“You did have one. Didn’t you?” He looks so defeated.

They swallow and nod.

“Oblivion,” the man holds his head in his hands and exhales. “I did this to you. I’m sorry, lassie—I screwed things up when they were going so well.”

“…Why are you already dressed?” They ask softly. “…Are you leaving already?”

“It’s almost dawn.” Brynjolf sighs.

"Oh.” Sahkriimir doesn’t say anything more beyond that. They're silent when he approaches and frees their wrists from the cot frame. They turn over, back to him, and fight the rising urge to cry.

“When I get back,” Brynjolf’s soft voice filters through their ears. They pause to listen. “…I would… like to show you. A night to remember. A night you can enjoy. But this night wasn’t it, lassie. I’m sorry.”

They oblige in turning over and facing the man. They see the pain in his eyes and the agony on his lips. The shame of making them relieve one of their worst experiences—It makes them their chest ache. They frown. “I’m not angry at you. Brynjolf. I’m sad things did not go the way I wanted them to. But,” they inhale deeply. “...I would like things to go the way they were. When you get back. I want a bigger bed.” The last sentence is a light-hearted attempt to make Brynjolf smile. They’re happy it works. 

“That makes two of us.” He can’t hide the relief in his tone. He stoops back down to kiss them—steering clear of their neck.

Even if not a _dragon_, they are a greedy person. They want all his kisses, all his warmth, and they derive glee out of caressing his jawline and feeling his breath hitch. When he draws back, it is only to rest his forehead against theirs. Their hands trail down to the scars on his neck, outlining the long, winding one. “We don’t have… time. Do we?” To illustrate what they’re getting at, they shift their hands to the clasps of Brynjolf’s armor at his hips. The black leather looks far too good on him.

“If we did—I’d offer to take my armor off, lassie.” The man presses a kiss to their forehead and straightens up. The Nord pauses. “If you see me in a dream—Then maybe—You should say hi, Sahkriimir.”

“Do I get something if I do?” Sahkriimir squints at him.

“A handsome Nord without clothes.” Brynjolf chuckles at the red on their cheeks.

A knock sounds on the door. Beyond it comes the muffled words of Kara, “Brynjolf! Time to go.”

“…I got to go.” Brynjolf frowns. He stoops down to give them one more kiss and their fingers tangle in his hair, already missing him. When he draws back and stands, he whistles softly. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Good.” Sahkriimir pulls the blanket over their form and huffs. “I am claiming this bed for myself. It is warm and smells like you.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll challenge—”

_“Brynjolf!”_ Kara’s knocking repeats, louder and longer this time.

“One second,” the man shouts. He looks back at Sahkriimir and their tired eyes squint at him. “Tell Mullokah I said goodbye. And Clucky.”

“Can’t forget the chicken.” They snort.

“The chicken is a thief-in-training.” Brynjolf talks casually, as if the words are truth. “Steals all of Mullokah’s time.”

The door to the room pushes open and Sahkriimir and Brynjolf alike stare at Kara. The latter sighs in relief. “Thank Lucifer. You’re wearing clothes. C’mon,” the Dragonborn holds the door open and Brynjolf gives Sahkriimir one last look before leaving. Kara glances from him to Sahkriimir on the bed. “We won’t borrow him too long.”

“Bring him back in one piece.” They huff. "Dragonborn."

“No promises!” Kara calls as she shuts the door.

Though the conversation ends lightly, their mind is quickly overwhelmed by sorrow. They feel alone in the cot, like it isn’t meant for one. Sahkriimir closes their eyes and prays sleep comes quickly.


	28. (smut) i still love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trying to hunt a nightingale is a tedious process that sends kara, brynjolf, and vex across skyrim's southern mountains pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning there's a few lines in this that hint at violence / domestic violence taking place in the past  
also hircine's a dick and god help me im not sure how to write daedra sometimes  
BUT here's some smut and fluff for ya'll 
> 
> updated chapter 11/21/2019  
mainly bc i wasn't happy with the first version  
this version feels a lot better  
(thank u for reading)

In the thick of winter, traveling the mountain pass is a dangerous idea. Kara knows she and Vex don’t share in Brynjolf’s natural resistance to the cold, and she finds out just how chilly it is in the first day of travel. But there is no other option: it would take too long to go north and cross through the Pale then head south to Falkreath’s hold once the Throat of the World is cleared. Crossing the southern mountain pass is quicker, and they need all the time they can get if there’s any hope of catching up to the Nightingales. The chills of the cold are only emphasized by the lack of fire; it’s too risky with the _hordes _of dragons flocking to the Throat of the World and surrounding region. The slightest hint of a fire could prompt a dragon to investigate, and while Kara knows _she _can handle a dragon, she knows she cannot handle _multiple _dragons.

The Dragonborn is grateful she and Sahkriimir came through the south pass when the duo first made the trek to Riften. Neither Brynjolf nor Vex have enough experience in that part of the region to be of help, and she constantly finds herself scanning the two’s surrounding to ensure neither of the higher-ranked thieves walk off a cliff.

The only upside to the time of year is that the bears are naught and the area flourishes with nimble elk, speedy hares, and sly foxes. Wolves are the only creatures that threaten the trio on the ground. Not even bandits are much to worry about; they can be shouted into submission or killed quickly by bow or by knife. Long as the skies remain clear, Kara manages not to linger on the impending sense of doom.

She intends to murder Mercer Frey herself and rip the thu’um from his throat with her own fingers. Or a Skeleton Key, if necessary.

Day six of travel, beyond the initial mountain pass and skirting the edges of the forest-riddled region of Falkreath Hold, is when the group finally lands trouble.

The trio travel on horses, but they keep to themselves otherwise. If a group of hunters or farmers pass by, each of them bows heads and avert gazes. The snow fall is light and the weather relatively stable for weather in Skyrim. Kara shivers and holds her cloak tighter to herself; she draws her hood clings to her horse for dear life as the stallion strides forward quietly on the cobblestone road, leading the way for her fellow thieves and their horses. On occasion she dismounts, strides forward, and breathes a shout of _yol toor shul _to melt ice on the road. 

The morning hours pass with ease, but come noon Kara pulls on the reins for her horse to stop. She squints and glances ahead, at the sight of one overturned caravan and dead horse. She calls back, “Something’s off here!”

“Should we go around?” Vex frowns from atop her mare. “Investigate? What do you want to do?”

“It’s up to you two.”

“Aye, lasses,” Brynjolf whistles sharply from his mare and squints at the dead horse. “Interesting the horse bit the dust. Most thieves would take it. Horses fetch good coin, and they don’t have any qualms switching loyalties.”

“I want to look for evidence of what went on. If they killed the horse, what could that mean? Not a dragon—It hasn’t been fed on.” Kara dismounts from her horse and walks it off the road into snow-laden woods. Behind her, Brynjolf and Vex follow. The three tie their horses to the trees and Kara leads them back to the overturned caravan. Kara comments as she walks up to the deceased horse sprawled across the road; she kneels next to it and finds long, deep lacerations in its neck. “…But these are claw marks. Can’t be bears—A really big wolf, maybe?”

“Could it be a werewolf? Tales of those been in the region for a long time, particularly when you get close to Whiterun.” Brynjolf unsheathes his shortswords and holds them at the ready. His eyes flicker down the road. Among the falling snow flurries, the trio can see a larger caravan abandoned at the side.

“We’re not by Whiterun. Are we?” Kara frowns. _Even if we were... the Companions wouldn't just do this. They're the chaotic good of a party!_

“A tale is a tale, lass,” Brynjolf cuts her off and frowns. “Do we really want to press on?”

“Let me check for survivors.” Kara strides forward, alone, until she’s certain her voice can reach far enough. _“Laas!” _

The Aura Whisper reaches out into the area. When she looks back at Brynjolf and Vex, she spies the two thieves as large red masses against a white background. When she scans the area ahead, the Dragonborn pauses. Though no red masses show up on ground alongside the caravan or in the air, she sees in the distance not one, not two, but three masses. One is bent at a strange angle while the other two stand upright and tall. Her eyes widen. “There’s three of them. One of them is… kneeling, maybe? Or—”

Mid-conversation, one of the tall red masses reaches for the one on the ground. It makes for the area she assumes is the throat. Her fists clench as she watches the three masses become two, with the third fading from view on the ground.

“They killed them,” the Dragonborn grits her teeth. “They just killed one.”

If there was any hope of survivors, it is gone now. Something about that fact simmers in her veins. She unclasps her bow from her back and begins to sneak forward when Brynjolf lurches a hand unto her shoulder, having crept up in the meantime. “—Lass, what d’you think you’re doing?”

“If they’re bandits then I want them off the mortal plane. I doubt whoever manned this cart and caravan were people guilty of being brutally executed, Brynjolf. Besides, I don’t want to worry about these guys on the way back,” Kara’s eyes narrow and she shrugs off the Nord’s hand. She looks back at Vex, the latter catching up a minute later. “Vex, how badly you want to stab?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” The Imperial thief pulls out two ebony dagggers and huffs. “I’m dying to practice for when we find Mercer.”

“Fine, fine,” Brynjolf looks from one woman to the other. “Vex—With me. Kara, you go from a distance. Once they catch unto the fact you’re there, we’ll use it as an opening. _Quickly_, painlessly, we aren’t… _killers_. We’re not torturing the folks for fun. I mean that.”

Kara nods. After relaying information on where the two bandits are, she splits off from Vex and Brynjolf. She whispers another _laas _before venturing forward and off the road. She pulls an arrow from her quiver and notches it as she stalks into the woods toward two upright, red masses. The sound of wind fills her thoughts and she wills herself to relax against an increasing, racing heartbeat. As she slowly trudges through snow, using the trees and thickening snowfall for cover, she hears talking. It is faint at first, but as she moves closer, the woman begins to make out a conversation.

“…orn, did the contract specify which organs…?”

_What in Oblivion? _Kara stiffens. Between the snow and trees, she can make out the dark figures against the background, but it’s hard to judge distance and speed they move. One of them kneels next to a body. She whispers, _“Laas yah nir.”_

She’s relieved to see Brynjolf and Vex are both moving into position. She brings her bow up and takes aim.

“Something about not touching the heart. Bring the rest for the bonus.” The second voice is gruff and snappy. It makes her stop. “The fucker’s blood is caked in skooma—It’s all I can smell in the air.”

“Do not take this the wrong way, Brother, but I do not envy your inquisitive sense of smell.” The first voice pauses. “If anything, I imagine latrines must be a Daedra and a half to a werewolf.”

_Brother. Werewolf. Contract._

“Dark Brotherhood.” Kara’s previous whisper lingers long enough for her to see when the two individuals freeze and snap heads up in her direction. She stares in horror. The bow feels heavy in her hands and she knows she must _shoot _but she can’t bring herself to do it when—As she thinks, one red mass suddenly _howls _and begins to shift physical form. She instinctively releases the arrow but the aim is off; the woman screams into the air as she spots Brynjolf and Vex surge forward, _“Don’t!” _

Arnbjorn, a man she once knew, a member of the faction she once _led, _the husband of another universe’s Speaker, the Nord who took so long to grow on her but finally did—His werewolf form is as wicked as he is; there’s no sign of the red-and-black shrouded armor as he barrels at her. She gasps in surprise at the speed and narrowly sidesteps the werewolf’s charge. Arnbjorn swings around a thin tree with the momentum and his claws bear on her form while she clumsily messes with notching another arrow in the snow. She doesn’t have the time; she brings her hands up to protect herself and screeches when claws rip through an arm guard and leave bloody gashes in her left forearm. The arm hangs miserably at her side and she screams at him in pain.

“You _fuck,_” Kara hisses and ducks a swing. Arnbjorn aims to kill; he _will _kill her if she doesn’t act. But her former life, the shadow of half a Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, it haunts her awake and asleep. She can’t bring herself to try and kill him. She sucks in a breath while the werewolf backs up and circles her. _“Gol hah!” _

The shout makes the werewolf stiffen and halt. She breathes in relief when he slumps and stares at her, perfectly docile and awaiting a command.

“Return to your Sanctuary! Now!” Kara hisses the statement. She hooks her bow to her back and shakes while pulling out a health potion from her bag. The liquid tastes as shitty as she remembers it; she swallows it with mild retching. Goosebumps rise on her skin and her hair stands on end as the distinct sound of Vex’s _scream _pierces the air. Kara stares in the direction before she bolts for the woman.

She finds Vex thankfully uninjured, standing as a buffer between a grievously wounded Nord and a Dark Brotherhood assassin. Her mouth drops open and she stares as the assassin glances over shoulder before returning his gaze forward; the Argonian’s stance is exactly how she remembers it. His scales are every bit as enticing to touch as they were before the sky fell and the universe reset. The dark greens of his body line up neatly with the form-fitting shrouded armor.

“His blades are poisoned,” Kara grits her teeth and unsheathes two ebony blades. “We need to get Brynjolf up before the poison—”

“_I know that,_” Vex spits.

“Then do it!” Gods help her if Vex _or _Veezara kill the other. Kara runs forward and slashes at her former lover. He’s a nimble fuck on his feet and she curses the fluid steps of a well-trained Shadowscale. Her eyes remain locked on his while she parries each strike of his enchanted, poisoned daggers and forces him backwards. He leaps through the snow with ease; his movements against snow flurries give her a disadvantage tracking him. When a snowflake nearly hits her eye, her aggravation grows and she screams the words, _“Laas yah nir!” _

The red gives Veezara’s location away in time for the Argonian to shove past her daggers and throw her off her feet. She hisses and topples to the ground with the Shadowscale and the two roll over and begin to wrestle the other for control of the knives. Being so close, maintaining that proximity, it frustrates and angers the Dragonborn. _This _Veezara is not _her _Veezara! This Veezara cares nothing for her! But she cares for him! She wants him to _live_ and _thrive_ and no matter how much Vex screams at her to shout him into Oblivion, she won’t! Kara grips the man’s wrists and pushes back as he presses two daggers down at her bare throat; she growls and shoves him off before scrambling to her feet. She can’t do it; she can’t bring herself to hurt him.

Kara’s eyes start to water. “Why did _you _have to be here?”

“Business.” Veezara’s response is perfectly composed and without emotion. The Last Shadowscale keeps two daggers upright and poised in her direction.

“Why couldn’t it have been anyone else—_Anyone!” _

He’s fast, so much faster than the other universe. His eyes narrow on hers; the yellow-green eyes she still _loves _lingers on her with only a cold, lethal ambition behind them. The woman can scarcely process the hostility he displays and the intent to kill. The man’s strikes are a flurry of blades and she struggles to throw herself back far enough to avoid being hit. When her foot catches on a protruding tree root she stumbles and falls backward. In tandem, her hands reach out to grab unto something. She feels the Argonian’s daggers slip between a crack in her leather chestpiece and cut into her flesh. The woman’s fingers dig into the man’s armor and she pulls him down with her as she falls into the snow.

Cold sweats break over her body and she feels the toxins seep into the searing-hot, throbbing wounds. Veezara pushes himself up. Her hands are too weak to hold on to him, even if the touch of shrouded armor to her fingers demands it. Her mouth opens to talk but all that comes out is an agonizing scream of pain as he rips his daggers free from her body and dumps her on the ground. The snow seeps red and she stares at his face as her vision begins to swim. To her horror, he looks at her and kneels not to help her to her feet, or kiss her, or assure her things will be alright, but to flip one enchanted dagger over and hold the blade to her neck.

“Veezara.” Kara’s eyes fill with tears. “Don’t. _Please.”_

In the back of her mind, she vaguely recalls a memory of another universe. She thinks about how Arnbjorn once sparred the Shadowscale, and how the werewolf’s body reacted to the poisons. She thinks about how he lived only due to Babette’s actions in cutting out every last chunk of necrotic and festering tissue. She thinks about how she doesn’t even know what poison runs through her body; she can’t make herself an antidote even if an alchemy laboratory stocked full of ingredients appeared out of nowhere. She thinks about the cruel irony: of course in a universe run by Sheogorath, she must fight a former lover.

_Sahkriimir. You were right. This is a cycle of punishment. _Her eyes shut and the cold numbs her completely. She feels a cold liquid pour down her throat as she blacks out.

The next thing she knows, she stirs to the sound of a crackling campfire. It is bitterly cold. Her body is chilled to the bone but her shivers go unanswered in spite the weight placed on her form. She feels horrible, aching pains _everywhere_. A terrible taste lingers in her throat. When she tries to open her eyes, she finds blurry shapes and shifting figures greet her. Snow continues to fall overhead on what she eventually sees as a small, humble campsite. There is no sign of the Dark Brotherhood; the only people she sees is one desperate white-haired Imperial and a relieved ginger-haired Nord. The expressions of both make her want to snort, but the thought of trying sends too much pain through her torso.

“Thank Talos.” Brynjolf leans back and exhales. He sits on the ground, a cleared-out expanse of ground tucked between tall rock outcroppings. He holds his head in his hands and grimaces. “Don’t do that again, lass. I don’t need a Dragonborn dying on the guild now.”

_Dying. I was dying. _Kara’s eyes shoot open and she tries to sit up. She curses and hisses at the pulsating tension in her chest. Her hand grips her blouse and she frowns and looks down. “Where is my armor? Where is—”

“Had to take it off to dress the wounds. You do know you got _stabbed, _right?” Vex’s tone makes her pause. Kara’s eyes meet the Imperial’s own and the two stare at one another. Vex looks away and frowns. “You were bleeding you when I found you. Oblivion, I thought you were already dead—How you _aren’t _dead is… Oblivion.”

“That’s a lot less cursing than I thought you’d say,” Kara mumbles. She hisses when Vex shoves her back down to the bedroll. Her brown eyes narrow. “…Vex, I’m _fine_—”

“You think you’re _fine?_” The woman grits her teeth. “I’m trying not to lose my cool here, Kara, but you were _bleeding to death _a couple hours ago! I had to try and use that shitshow magic again because Brynjolf took the rest of our healing potions just so the fucker didn’t keel over!”

“Which I appreciate, for the record.” Brynjolf crosses his arms and looks in the two’s direction.

“Wait—Wait—” Kara begrudgingly lets Vex dump blankets on her. She’s still not fully over what the woman said to her back in the cistern, about not believing her, about her making _no sense, _but the struggle to forgive and to resent goes back and forth constantly. She feels weary. Her eyes lock unto Vex and she peers at the woman’s face; Vex’s soft, nigh-white blond hair looks ethereal with snowflakes scattered across it. Kara swallows and looks away. “—How did—I got _stabbed_. Where did the poison go? I know he uses poisoned blades—Veezara _always _uses poisoned daggers—”

“…You know the Argonian’s name, lass?” Brynjolf pauses.

Kara inhales deeply. “…So. Do you remember when I talked to you about… um. About not being distracted before a contract? About how distractions lead to failure and failure leads to death? About how my _good friend _told me that once?”

The groan that emits from Vex’s mouth is long and annoyed. The woman grits her teeth and shoves a finger at Kara’s face. “Was that why you couldn’t shout him to death? Because you two are _buddies?_”

“Not anymore. It’s complicated, something you would know if you _believed me,_” the weariness dies, and Kara’s bitterness returns in cold words and a steel-hard stare. She grits her teeth and hisses. “Then again, I thought it’d be obvious by the fact he _stabbed me._”

“Lasses, don’t rip each others throats out. It’s been a long day as it is.” Brynjolf is the voice of reason and his eyes bear down on both women.

Kara forces her aching body to turn to face the other side of the encampment, back to Vex, and she huffs loudly. “She started it.”

_“Oblivion,_ that’s childish, Kara!” Brynjolf sighs. “Mullokah’s the only kid allowed in the guild. Don’t make me feel like a _parent _to another Dragonborn.”

“I’m going to sleep.” Vex declares and makes to stand. The Imperial woman is heard walking to another side of the camp’s fire pit and clambering into a bedroll. She huffs. “Wake me when it’s my turn for watch, Brynjolf. If I catch you sleeping on the job, it’s my boot to your face.”

Kara clenches her eyes shut. “Talking is not sleeping!”

“Well, it’s what you’re doing now!” Vex growls.

“I’m _trying _to let the conversation die! You’re the one that keeps dragging it out! Jesus Christ on Nazareth and Nirvana and every fucking planet in the Milky Way,” the Dragonborn spews a long list of curses that she knows Vex only sees as _imaginary _deities. She pulls a blanket over her head. “Brynjolf, _please _let me know when it’s _acceptable _to shout Vex into shutting the fuck up.”

“Talos give me patience.” Kara hears the Nord utter under his breath.

She ignores Vex when the Imperial thief begins spewing bull again. She forces her mind to focus on other things as it drifts to throes of sleep. She thinks to the fight that occurred, likely the same day if her injuries are any indication, and to how it ended.

In the past universe, when she and Veezara sparred, she faked defeat and used his perception of a supposed victory to force his hand. But that was a _sparring _match, in a controlled environment where the sanctuary grounds offered the two relative-equal playing field. That was _Falkreath Sanctuary, _where Cicero escorted her only after she had first spent months teetering around Skyrim for fun and learning different combat styles. That was _then, _and this is _now, _and the willingness to kill ingrained in Veezara’s eyes continues to haunt her subconscious. She is not a twenty-nine-year-old Listener who dilly-dallies and relies on overwhelming brute force, arrogance, and luck to succeed in accomplishing her goals. She is a thirty-one-year-old Dragonborn who must accept she does not know anywhere near the amount she wants to compared to last time.

Veezara almost killed her. Her body aches at the acknowledgement of where his daggers connected with her soft flesh. But in that moment—and part of it is shameful to admit—Kara recalls her hesitation lay not only with the fact he _was _once a lover, but also the fact she wishes he _was _her lover once more. Her feelings remain, and for that short time their bodies connected she could not help but linger a second on the possibility of reaching what the past universe never allowed time for. She misses him. She misses the little blushes on his face, one of the few ways she could get his composure to crack in spite of the years he spent crafting it. She misses the bumpiness and individuality of his scales, of his back against hers in evenings spent in the two’s Shadowscale training. She misses the faint smiles he once offered, and the way his eyes could read her like most could not.

She misses him. He almost killed her in this world, but she _misses _him. Kara grimaces; it is an annoying feeling to deal with. The rational side of her brain knows Veezara is not _her _Veezara, not _her _Shadowscale, not _her _lover, but she wishes he was. She wants it so much.

Her frustration and agitation brought on by hers and Vex’s snippy feuding dissipates. A melancholy feeling washes over her body. She exhales softly. Another thought comes to mind, one more tenacious than anything else, and she pauses to consider its ludicrous nature as she thinks, _I wonder if—That Dremora—If he’s right. If I really did have a thing going on with a Daedra. With that… Lordship? Sanguine? Lord Sanguine? What did the Dremora call him? A bunch of fancy titles? _Her mind drifts off with the thoughts. _Something like a… A Lord of… Hedonism? But that’s so… So…_

“So what, my Lady?” Kara’s eyes shoot open and she comes to not in a cold camp with fellow thieves, but a grandiose ballroom where dozens of different individuals are dressed and engaging in festive, lively merriment.

She looks to the individual who has an arm tucked with her own and gawks. “You’re that—”

“Sullivan, yes, hello and welcome to the Myriad Realms of Revelry! I must say,” Sullivan’s grin is lengthy and delighted. “It is _shocking _to see you—A true surprise! Naturally speaking, this calls for champagne—May I get you a drink?”

She knows she didn’t go to bed wearing an obtuse gown. It’s billowy at the hem and it trails like something out of a book on Victorian-era royalty. She jabs the fabric in disbelief and yelps when the Dremora butler pulls her along and out of dancing, spinning party guests.

“None of this is thematically-appropriate for _Skyrim _as a video game!” Kara’s protests go unnoticed as the butler leads her out a side corridor and away from the twirling, merry patrons in their fine clothes and magnificent gowns. She struggles to keep up with the Dremora butler’s pace as he nonchalantly bustles his way around twisting halls, past elaborate parties, and through indulgence chambers full of booze, sex, and skooma alike. Kara tries not to stare as she walks by but she finds it difficult not to gawk at how utterly comfortable everyone is with the set-up.

“There is _no _shame in the Myriad Realms, my Lady,” Sullivan looks down at her. She squints at him and he offers a humble, “We all seek the same thing here! Pleasure! To _indulge!_ That is what Lord Sanguine excels at!”

“Wait—Wait—Wait—Is _that _where you’re taking me??” Kara reels back and snatches her arm from the butler’s grasp. She narrows her eyes and balls up lacy-gloved fists. “Answer me, Dremora!”

“Of course, my Lady, it would be a displeasure not to assist you in acquiring the answer to your—”

“Answer me directly!”

“Lady Kara, the answer is _yes,_” Is all Kara needs to hear. Her eyes widen.

“I am not going to _tango_ with a Daedric Prince,” she grits her teeth and backs away. When Sullivan takes another step she lets out a low, draconic growl. “_You _are not taking me to see Sanguine! You and all the others in this place are not _taking me anywhere. _Am I clear? Do you understand, Dremora? I’m not—I’m not repeating myself!”

Part of her wants to say _I’m not a Daedra’s beloved. I’m not a Daedra’s Lady. I’m not a Daedra’s lover. _But the same part of her that wants to say that also worries if it is true, if the recent encounter with Veezara is anything to go off of. When Sullivan does not answer, Kara takes a tentative step back. She finds he does not follow; she turns and marches away in the _opposite _direction. The Dragonborn may not know where she’s going, but she imagines she’ll find an exit or wake up at one point.

She doesn’t. Kara feels like she isn’t a stranger to the plane of Oblivion, but that part of her knows jack shit about navigating the Myriad Realms. At least, if she _is _no stranger to the Realms, her mind is playing tricks on her and not assisting with the emerging situation. Though she tries to retrace her steps, it feels like the decadent halls, the grandiose décor, and the beautiful, ornate outfits of Dremora and souls alike around her, all go on _forever _in helpless loops. She takes two steps forward and two steps back, never quite making progress despite turning as many corners she can count on both hands and then some.

It gives her a headache. She gives up after what feels like hours, though she’s more than sure it doesn’t go but a few minutes. Despite a dry throat, she refuses to accept any drinks from Dremora in uniform. She doesn’t know what might happen and she refuses to take any chances on a realm described first-hand by Sullivan as being full of _indulgences. _She will not break her resolve to avoid alcohol nor become addicted to skooma.

What she does not expect to find in the ‘battle’ to find the damn exit sign is a room devoid of any orgies, partying, or loud music. Kara’s breath catches in her throat at a room that is purely _wilderness. _A beautiful expanse of trees, low-lying brush, and grasses comes into view. She hesitates, a hand on the doorframe, before she steps across the doorway and beyond the threshold of the Myriad Realms. The tiny pocket of wilds is breath-taking. She hears fauna in the distance, crickets chirping, and sees clouds roll slowly overhead. Her eyes soften and she strides out further into the strange world of the strange room.

She sees a man at a camp, surrounded by several hounds. He’s very tall, well over a foot taller than herself, and he wears a deer pelt that not only hides his face but trails to cover his upper torso too. She can see the muscles of his chest and the spear at his side. He turns a spit that roasts what she imagines is elk. As the train of her dress trails behind her, it catches on low-lying plants and snaps them. The hounds howl in unison and jump to their feet. Kara stiffens like a deer in headlights and stares as the dogs—no, the _wolves_—begin to growl and snap jaws in her direction. But none of them move to strike.

The man looks over his shoulder at her. His eyes are deep, dark, and unreadable. Though she feels like she should know him, no name comes to mind. When his towering form stands and he turns to face her, she swallows and grits her teeth. “Do you know where the way out is?”

“…Fascinating,” the individual remarks faintly. He sounds like a hunter, trained and with experience necessary to keep a pack under control. The deer pelt that adorns and hides his facial features feels strangely intimidating and watchful. “…Most Dremora come to me… asking if I need _assistance._ But you are not most Dremora… are you? No.” He walks to her, ignoring her hiccups and steps back. He stops two feet away and rumbles lowly. “_Who _are you?”

“…No one important.” She feels very small in comparison to the hunter. She feels small, weak, and feeble. She wants to turn and run but she doubts a spectacularly inconvenient dress of proportional puffiness at the skirt and _immense _length in the train can do jack shit for _running. _She swallows and stares the man down; if she is afraid, she will not show it. “Who are _you?_ Why is a wilderness lovely like this one in the middle of an orgy-fueled, drug-riddled booze-fest?”

The hunter throws his head back and laughs. It’s not a peaceful sound. His teeth are stained, not yellow like in some humans she’s known, but _red_. His eyes are predatory. He _is _a predator, but not the sexual kind that makes her sick to her stomach to think of.

“I am the Prince of the Hunt! And a tiny Daedra does not know _my _name?” His voice is a hushed threat, violence and pleasure simultaneously intoned into each syllable. “Who _am _I, Daedra?”

She swallows nervously. “Prince Hircine.”

_“Good.” _Lord Hircine spits out the response and steps forward. His hands tense as he reaches for her arm and peels off a glove. “Who do you serve, Daedra? Who does your soul belong to? I can _feel _it coursing through that skin. It wants to be freed…”

“No one.” Kara speaks before she has a chance to think the words through. She flinches backward when Hircine leans to her eye-level. The antlers of his deer pelt threaten to poke out an eye, but she turns her head away. “I will never serve a _Daedric Prince, _Hircine.”

“Perhaps a _hunt… _It will change your mind. Show you… the hierarchy of this pack.” Hircine grabs her arm and pulls her toward a slope. “You are not in _charge, _tiny Daedra. You are a _fraction _of my power. Not even a _fracton… _How disappointing for such an eccentric individual.”

“Hey—Hey!” Kara begins to pull back and struggle. She hears growls come from behind her and when she looks, she sees what initially looked like four-to-five hounds is now upward of twenty. Fear blankets her face and she curses and screeches at the Prince of the Hunt. “This is a _dream! _It’s not real! It’s not—”

Hircine laughs. He pulls her to him and holds her up by the wrist. His words are full of excitement for a hunt, for blood to be shed, and Kara has a sinking feeling if she doesn’t do something that _her _blood will be shed. Her fears are confirmed when the Daedric Prince utters a harsh, “Only _mortals _dream of the planes. What a foolish Daedra… My hounds will set you straight.”

He intends to use her as _prey. _As _bait. _As a _game _for the wolves—werewolves, most likely—that surround her and him on all sides. Her eyes glaze over and she hiccups and shakes. Her stubbornness folds and bends to panic as she thrashes against him, desperate to break out of the hunter’s iron-clad grasp. When he howls, she goes gray in the face and stares in horror as _more _and _more _werewolves come crawling out of the darkness into the Hunting Grounds.

“Please don’t,” the Dragonborn begs, partially spurred by throes of flashbacks related to her own traumatic marriage back on earth. “Please—"

“A Daedra doesn’t _beg_.” Hircine throws her to the ground and bellows a long, hideous snarl into the darkened sky or ceiling or _thing _overhead.

It’s panic. It’s what reminds her of her own inabilities, of her flaws, her weaknesses. She knows her traumas are not all she is but at that moment she feels the overwhelming nature of helplessness weigh her down. She can’t even stand, merely back up on the ground and get grass stains over her lovely sanguine-red dress while…

_Sanguine. _

The butler said she was his _beloved. _She doesn’t believe it—she doesn’t know what she believes, much like Vex in recent weeks—but she doesn’t have a choice. She grits her teeth and shouts for the Daedra, _“Sanguine!”_

Hircine pauses and holds a hand out to his pack. The werewolves halt advancing at his command. The Prince of the Hunt stares at her. She stares back. Her breathing is shaky. She waits for the second where pain will erupt as werewolves tear her apart, but it doesn’t come. She takes deep breaths and silence falls over the wild lands, up until a grievous set of knocks _pounds _on a door somewhere. A moment later, a part of the wilderness cuts away to reveal a door behind it; the door is forced open and a familiar butler in uniform holds it open for another Daedric Prince to join the mess.

Kara’s breath catches in her throat. Rich ruby-red eyes scan the room but land on her. She swallows; she knows he looks at _her_. She knows he’s there for _her. _The fact saying his name actually worked is… preposterous. She can see surprise in Hircine’s eyes a moment, but the hunter looks over shoulder and says calmly. “What are you here for?”

“Figured I would say _hi_ to my lovely guest and all hundred of his pet _dogs,”_ the Prince’s voice is dry as he strides past werewolves without a care. He dons a set of heavy armor, dark metal with swirling red enchants linked to the material. It fits him. Kara averts her gaze when Sanguine stops at her side but she accepts his hand and he pulls her to her feet. The Dremora stiffens when the Prince pulls her to his side and wraps an arm around her shoulders nonchalantly. “Didn’t know you found one of my lays. Talk about _dirty. _Wanting to have all of you for herself—I doubt she knew what she walked into. Can’t allow it, nope, not happening. Got to keep the face intact, Hircine, it’s the best part of her.”

“She called your name.” The Prince of the Hunt ignores every word Sanguine offers him. The two Princes eye one another intensely. Hircine pauses. “…What is… _her _name?”

“Ahwahscalahdeela.” Sanguine replies without missing a beat. His smile is wicked and cunning. “If you need help pronouncing it—”

Hircine grimaces and turns away. “…Leave this place. My wolves hunger. I hunger. A hunt beckons…”

“It’s _my _house,” the Prince of Debauchery snorts and shakes his head. He looks down at Kara and pauses. His attention returns to Hircine. “But fine! Fine! I am trying _so _hard to make you comfy here, pal, but you ain’t helping much. _Forgive me _for _intruding _on _my house._”

Kara doesn’t understand the situation, but she doesn’t argue nor does she say anything in protest when Sanguine calmly guides her out of the wilderness room and back into the ‘normal’ halls of the decadent Myriad Realms. The Daedric Prince releases her. She ignores his stare and turns to Sullivan. “…What is that room?”

“A demiplane built to mirror the Hunting Grounds, intended to house Lord Hircine and his guards while he is on site for business, my Lady!” The butler chimes happily. A look from Sanguine and Sullivan bows his head, smiles, and backs away. “Excuse me, my Lady, my Lord, I have guests to attend to.”

Kara opens her mouth to say something but it’s too late. The butler’s already turned and walking away. Sullivan disappears around a corner. It dawns on the Dragonborn that she is alone with another Daedric Prince and she has no idea if he is just as dangerous as the last one was. She stiffens and risks a glance at her. It surprises her to see Sanguine’s eyes hold a twinkle, and his lips a delighted grin. He leans down to her eye level and she hiccups. “—Not that close.”

He straightens upright. “Look at you, making it here by yourself. Oblivion, you look fine in that dress.”

“I have never worn something so over-the-top in my life,” the Dragonborn crosses her arms and frowns. “Why can’t I wear my armor in my dreams?”

“…You’re dreaming. Yeah, that makes sense,” the Daedric Prince ruffles her hair and she reels back from him. He snorts. “I don’t bite. Not unless you’re into that.”

“Explain what is going on.” Kara demands it. “The last time I saw you—You—You made me _think _things. And I don’t know how I feel about those things right now.”

“…Good,” the Daedric Prince says after a prolonged pause. “That’s good. No, really—You don’t believe me, I _know_, but it is. Means…” He hesitates. “Your soul’s resisting the madness. About time. I _fully _intend to have a discussion with you about why forgetting me is _extremely _offensive—Once your memory heals. Kara.”

She stares at him, bewildered by his words. Her heart jumps into her throat when the Daedric Prince smirks. Kara’s brows furrow. “…Explain.”

Sanguine holds out a hand.

She continues to stare.

He must take it as a _yes_, because his hand grabs hers and pulls her gently alongside him. The Daedric Prince ignores the events of all chambers they pass by. He walks her into one of the large ballrooms, only this one is devoid of other party-goers. Kara gawks when the Daedra takes her to the center of the room. He calmly pulls her to him and wraps arms around her. She’s left speechless, both by the action itself and the heat that crawls into her cheeks. She glances up at him and swallows. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring you.” Is the reply, blunt and straightforward.

“That’s not an explanation.” The Dragonborn states.

“No, but I’m hoping it’ll provoke one.” Sanguine’s response is simple. “Maybe trigger the rest of your memories to come back. Proximity is a good thing.”

“Can’t I just ask you questions?” Kara sputters.

“—Only if _I_ get to ask _you _questions back,” The Daedric Prince’s grin is wicked. When he starts to sway, she surprises herself in swaying with him. “I don’t know what the Prince of Madness did to your mind, or why you consulted _him _over yours truly, but—”

_“Sheogorath?”_ Kara blurts out the name. She’s lost on many things, but not on the damn Prince of Madness that is responsible for taking so much from her. The Dragonborn squints. “Why are _you _pissed with the Daedric Prince?”

For a moment, she sees Sanguine’s eyes darken. She breaks eye contact and looks away, tracing the edge of the room with her gaze. His hand, protected by a gauntlet, rises and gently nudges her head to look back up at him.

“Kara,” and it is spoken faintly, with a tenderness she was not aware a Daedra was capable of. “Last time—I didn’t get there fast enough to stop him from making you walk off a _mountain_. I didn’t want to see you die. I don’t intend to let it happen this time.”

“You weren’t _there_—I don’t _remember _you there,” the Dragonborn scrunches her nose and grimaces. “All I remember is—Falling—”

“You went splat.” It’s spoken too bluntly.

She pulls away from him. He doesn’t try to keep her. Her hands—one gloveless, one gloved—clench into small fists. “This is giving me a headache. All of this—What an awful dream. Why is this happening?”

“Sheogorath, our _good _pal over at the Shivering Isles,” Sanguine hums faintly. “—He’s responsible for you _dying _in the last universe. _That _is why I’m _pissed _with him. As for the headache—You let him mess your head up. I don’t know _why _you did that.”

“Vex.” It clicks in her head and she runs hands through her dark hair. Her eyes widen and she begins looking around absentmindedly, pacing back-and-forth across the chamber. Sanguine stands to the side, arms crossed, and watches her. “Solitude—Was it Solitude—When Gulum-Ei—It had to be—When Vex—She died—She died, and—I summoned Sheogorath.” Kara’s voice becomes frantic and she rakes her scalp and growls. “What did I give him? What did he want? I needed him to—To touch Time—Rewind it—Just a few minutes—I couldn’t let her die, Sanguine! I couldn’t—” The headache begins to throb; she howls in pain that surpasses the physical threshold and impacts her mental state. The rest of the world feels far away.

“What a little pest. Sheogorath. Going through the trouble to break us up,” Sanguine’s voice remains consistent despite the room spinning around her vision. Her knees wobble but she remains standing. Kara can’t make out what direction Sanguine comes from, but when he puts hands on her shoulders and steadies her, she looks up and finds his face remains solid and still in light of the room continuing to spin. “You gave him memories of me.”

“I did?” Kara mumbles in disbelief. “There are actual _memories_ of _you _in my head?”

“Pretty good ones, I’m inclined to say,” the Daedric Prince’s red eyes lock on her brown ones. She can’t make herself pull away. The draw to the ruby-red gaze is stronger than any magnet she can think of off the top of her head. “My favorite’s probably the one we celebrated together after you killed Emperor Titus Mede the II.”

“I don’t know what memory that is.” Kara stares. Though she can’t look away, she feels in control of her _dream _body enough to pull from his grasp. She notes he doesn’t hold unto her or restrain her. She steps back and frowns. “…So… All of what… What Sullivan has told me so far… About you—”

“It’s true,” His grin is wicked. “Every last word. I wouldn’t let him claim just anyone is my _beloved, _Kara. That’s a special word for a special gal.”

“That’s not—” She groans and holds her head in her hands. It’s too much to think about. She wants a nap. “—I—Did I really have a thing with a _Daedra?_ With _you _of all—”

“Hey. _Rude.”_ Sanguine’s smile fades.

“What else do you want me to say?” Kara throws her hands into the air.

_“I love you_ would be a start.”

“Absolutely not.” She crosses her arms and squints when he steps to her. “I don’t know what we were before—But—But—Even if I am entertaining the notion—I—I don’t know if I think the same of you now.”

“You’re curious, though. You _want _to know what the truth is. You _desire _it. I know, better than anyone else, what you want, Kara,” his eyes gleam with something she’s hesitant to call _warmth, _because it is so much more _intense _than the word ‘warmth’ can ever hope to describe. Sanguine’s smile returns to his lips. He swoops down to her eye level and grins ear-to-ear. “You remember Windhelm?”

_“Windhelm?”_ The proximity is messing with her head. She sees the ruby-red eyes so, so close. It makes her hesitate. It makes her stop. It makes her hold her breath and reconsider just what she knows and what she’s still trying to figure out.

“I don’t expect you to. But _when_ you remember it—I think you’ll get a kick out of this, looking back. Real funny shit. You and I keep running circles. Think of it like a drinking game,” The Daedric Prince’s gaze is intoxicating, worse than any drink she’s had. She loses herself studying it, inching closer and closer while his voice drops lower and lower in return. Sanguine lowers his head down and rests it against hers. “…It’s killing me to see you like this. Even the Lord of Debauchery gets tired of drinking games when they do this to you.”

“You’re a Daedric Prince—You might as well be a _god._” Kara struggles to voice the feelings that come to mind.

His sly, subtle smirk does not go unnoticed. “I _am _a god."

“What does a _god _want with a mortal?” She mumbles the question.

Sanguine’s gaze is deep. It’s gloriously sanguine, as rich as the wine he smells like and is heralded for. She doesn’t doubt that very _second,_ he has at least ten bottles on his person. She holds her breath when he draws back, in growing anticipation. Her eyes remain locked on his; she has zero thought of looking away when he’s so captivating.

“You are, will we say, a very dangerous and _very offensive _woman to fall for,” the Daedra’s words make her pause. Sanguine continues, “You don’t remember this, Kara, but I do. I could never forget the day you decided to taunt the Lord of Debauchery.”

“I did _what?_” The woman balks. “I’m not that foolish!”

“But you _were_.” The Daedric Prince laughs. It’s light, airy, and utterly enrapturing to hear. “You still _are_, Kara. Like choosing to make a deal with Sheogorath? Not your brightest moment. But I’m holding off lectures on that till you get back to your usual self.”

“I don’t—I’m not saying I fully believe you, Daedra—About _this_. But… if it were true,” she sucks in a deep breath. “How did I taunt you?”

“Well,” his hands move lower, gently tracing the curves of her dress. “_First, _you challenged me to a drinking game knowing who I was. Shouted my name and everything! Right before you lost. _Second, _you… Well. How should I put this? _What did you say before?” _The tone changes from soft to _exceptionally polite _and with it comes a headache that takes over her mind completely. She can’t stop her knees from buckling and it’s only by the Daedra’s quick reflexes she doesn’t collapse to the ground.

_She sees herself at a bar. It’s one of the taverns in Whiterun, the central city home to all players’ throughout the early quarter of the main questline. There’s music. A Redguard woman by the name of Saadia tends the bar. A bard sings off-key to the music but the patrons of the establishment are too drunk to notice. When she turns around, she sees herself—But not as a Dremora. She sees herself a human, one of her preferred customization options for her player character. _

_Her other ‘self’ looks up at a Breton. Though ‘she’ wears light armor, she notes the Breton is adorned in silky black robes embellished with red enchantments that swirl across the surface of the fabric. The Breton is taller by a foot. It’s almost comical to witness her other ‘self’ must crane ‘her’ neck and head to stare the man down. When Kara’s ‘other’ self begins to speak, she freezes and stares at the surreal nostalgic conversation playing out._

_“It’s your,” the ‘other’ Kara puts a hand on the Breton’s chest and shoves him away, “gate to one of those Myriad Realms. Your plane of Oblivion. It’s at Morvunskar—the gate is, I mean. That’s where I would meet you if we… took this all the way.”_

_“Well, well.” It clicks on Kara: the Breton she sees is the same Daedric Prince that’s forced her to witness scenes before. She stares at her ‘other’ self’s blush, the faint dust of red on cheeks, and grimaces when the Breton, the one masquerading as the human he is not, intones with a devilish smirk. “You thinking about taking me all the way, Dragonborn?”_

_Kara watches her ‘other’ self’s face go from lightly rosy to a crimson tomato in seconds. Her ‘other’ self’s mouth hangs open for several seconds before the ‘other’ Kara finally snaps her mouth shut and eyes the human Kara knows is Sanguine. When the ‘other’ Kara’s hands make for the human Sanguine’s collar, and pulls him down, Kara already knows what’s about to happen. She makes sense of the scene: it’s a memory of one of the supposed tauntings, of a mortal that dare steal a kiss from the Daedric Prince of Indulgence. But something about the hopelessly enamored expression on the ‘other’ her’s face when that Kara releases the Daedra makes the Dremora stop._

_She can almost remember what his lips tasted like that evening. She can feel the heat burn on her cheeks in embarrassment at her own actions. She can feel the need stir and grow…_

He sets her on her feet without her asking. She’s beginning to understand how this _hypothetical relationship _works. He knows what she wants, all her desires and needs and facets, and he can satisfy them without ever asking her. But that is too simple, and she knows it cannot be _everything_, because there is no reason for a Daedra to become so hung up on a mortal—and she was absolutely a mortal, once, _those _memories are unfortunately intact as far as her earth life ended. Kara looks at the floor and pauses. “How many times?”

“Three.”

“What in Hades was I thinking?” She holds her head in her hands and hisses.

“Don’t know the guy, sorry,” Sanguine’s hands draw back and he rests them at his side. “You wanted to know the why. There’s most of it.”

“There’s _more?”_ Kara snaps her head back up and eyes him. “What was I doing?!”

“Being the hero Skyrim wanted. Got a little off-track there at the end, but I think you got pretty far.” The Daedra answers. “And you had a _little _fun on the way. Nothing wrong with that.”

She squints at him. “You’re leaving something out.”

“…Oh, you know, nothing _too _big,” his hands find their way around her waist. “Like I told you. Sullivan can’t mouth off about all the people coming in and outta here. Takes a certain Dragonborn to keep my attention.”

It takes a painfully long second for her to register who Sanguine speaks of. Her face heats up and she inadvertently shifts closer to him. Her hands tense into fists. “I… You… Really? _Really?”_

“You would know if I’m lying,” His voice drifts back to a pleasant whisper. When he starts to sway, she sways with him.

When he invites her to step closer, she does, and she presses her body flush against his. Her head stops at his chest plate and she shuts her eyes to listen to his heartbeat. “…So we… Did we do things like this a lot? Dance. Alone. Together.”

“Not as much as I wanted to. Not as much as you wanted to, either,” the Daedra remarks softly. “You _died_.”

“I did.”

“What? Not even a _thank you, Sanguine_ for making you that body?” He chuckles under his breath at her confused glance up. One of the Daedra’s hands rises to her face and he gently runs a thumb along her jawline.

“_You _did that?” The disbelief is loud. Her words echo across the ballroom.

“Had to.” Sanguine’s eyes darken a moment. He glances to the side. “—You were _dead_. And your soul—If I tried to claim it—It would’ve been torn in two from… Sithis acting on his claim. You _were _once Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, Kara.”

“So… you made me into a Dremora. A Dremora everyone thinks is a dunmer?” Kara’s tone is dry this time. “—That’s caused me problems. Did it have to be a _Dremora?_”

“Daedra can’t lose their souls to other Daedra as easily. Sure, it happens over debt. Agreements. Truces. You talk paperwork and paperwork is where it’s at, Kara, but it ain't easy like snatching up the souls of mortals,” the Prince’s ruby red gaze returns to her. “Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing I want more than having you with me all the time, but—Dremora has its advantages. Harder to stake a claim to that soul of yours. Not that I know how to make _human _bodies—At least, not _that _kind of human body.” His grin is well-natured.

“But?” Kara presses. She needs answers. _More _answers. Answers to satisfy the itch inside her and quell the heat coursing her veins from the Daedra’s proximity.

“—It’s not what you wanted. You, back then, and you _now_.” Sanguine’s grin melts to a sheepishly brazen smile. It’s crooked and wide and full of merriment befitting his sphere of influence. “I want nothing more than to have you here with me, Kara. But you’re more stubborn than a Daedra! You want freedom, and I—” He takes one of her hands in his and lifts it to his lips. He kisses it and eyes her lips. “—Want you to be _happy_. Satiated. That’s _my _desire, Dragonborn.”

She could melt in his grasp. Part of her does; she feels the dizziness transition to a lightheaded, fluttering feeling that spreads across her forehead. Kara’s mouth opens but she says nothing. She struggles to think. Her body burns with heat. Even if she doesn’t fully remember, her physical form does, and the intense reaction confirms Sanguine’s words.

“There it is.” It takes a long minute for her to acknowledge the words, much less the vivid crimson stare melding with her own humble brown gaze. Sanguine’s expressions carry the world in them. His smile becomes warmer but every bit tantalizing as he states softly. “—There’s Kara.”

“I’m Kara.” She asserts quietly.

“You’re _Kara,”_ the Daedra agrees. “And I love you.”

“But you’re a _Daedra_—” Kara mumbles. The traces of disbelief linger. “Daedra can’t… Can… Can they?”

“You and I have a bit of a connection,” the Prince replies without pause. “Even if you can’t remember it… The past universe led to this. Led to you. You know what you want? You want to live.”

_This memory comes differently. She is herself, laying in place of where another Kara should be. She is Kara. She was injured, the blood-stained clothes and pools of crimson on the ground hint at such. Yet when Kara looks, she finds human skin speckled with the obsidian-black of Dremora tissue. She slowly sits up while Sanguine growls, “You want to live, Kara.”_

_“What did you do to me?” She speaks the words of the memory without pause. She feels nauseous. She begins to retch. She barely catches sight of memory Sanguine’s narrowed gaze as it bears down at her. _

_“What was needed.”_

_An intense rage fills her. She looks over her shoulders and hisses. “I’m not a fool, Sanguine! I read the lore of Malkus Vile and Barbas! I know secrets of the Daedra! You can’t bullshit me all the time! You used your magic! You used your power to regenerate my flesh! My blood! My life!”_

_“You wouldn’t let the wrinkled old buffoon heal you,” the Daedric Prince replies firmly. “So I did.”_

_“—And by what right was that?!” She spits at the ground and gestures to the mottled pattern of flesh, a meld of human and Dremora tissue. Her voice rises in volume as the memory continues, “Who let you make that decision?! I’d have rather died than wound up like this! Why did you do this?” _

_“Because I want you to live.”_ But it’s not the harsh words imbued by a memory that is said in response. It’s spoken genuinely, with sincere affection written in every syllable. When Kara makes sense of her surroundings again, the Dremora finds Sanguine’s eyes are shut. He remains smiling and calm, but there’s a tension to his body posture that is very unlike him. “—Before you say anything. You must have an idea, right? Am I preaching to an empty room?”

Kara nods.

Sanguine snorts. “Good.”

“_Good?_” She gawks at the response.

“The Riften Ratways kicked it all off,” when he opens his eyes, they hold a fuchsia-red gaze far more vivid and breathtaking than what she expects. “Not that I have any regrets—But ‘pparently me healing you caused a few _hiccups _with the lines usually drawn between mortals and immortals. _Obviously_, I’m the Lord of Debauchery. Prince of Indulgences. Embodiment of Hedonism! Of sin itself! Lust, gluttony, the whole shebang! But you… You’re _Kara.” _The way he speaks her name makes her stomach flutter and flip. She sees how he looks at her, how his intense gaze cuts out the rest of the world and locks unto her, how his gaze shifts across her face and soaks in every minor detail.

She wants to kiss him, so she does. She stands on tip toes and leans up to press her lips against his. He breathes in deeply when she draws back, and the two look at each other a second more before Kara’s lips crash unto his. The first kiss skirted the waters, but the second dove into the sea of wine and merriment. She tastes it on his breath. She smells in it his scent. Her eyes shut and she relaxes as her hands rise instinctively to his armor. Everything he says is true; her fingers know the shape and feel of each clasp and hook of his pauldrons, his chest piece, his gauntlets. It doesn’t even matter that the two are in the middle of an empty ballroom where anyone could waltz in at a given second.

Her body _burns _with need. It, and her, _she _wants him. The desperation is a frantic, growing thing and she gasps and melts against his form when he pushes back and leads the duo’s intimate encounter.

“Sanguine,” she whispers against his lips and stares up when he draws back.

“Mm.” His smile is satisfying to see. “Did you want a bed to do this in?”

“This is a _ballroom_—” It doesn’t register that she’s in the Myriad Realms of Revelry until the world around the duo shifts. She jumps and gawks in surprise. Her hair stands on end at his raucous laughter. “What?”

“This is your dream, but _my _Plane of Oblivion.” Sanguine wordlessly picks her up and throws her unto a large bed with silky sheets and decadent, oversized pillows.

Kara’s eyes widen. She snaps her head up and looks around. Sure enough, the ballroom is gone and replaced with a vaguely familiar sight of an over-the-top bedchamber, complete with too much furniture, too much gold, and _far _too much wine and mead bottles in random places for her to not guffaw at. When Sanguine uncorks a bottle of alto wine and pours himself a glass, she stares. He winks and downs the glass in one long gulp.

“I’d offer but I know your response. You don’t drink.” The Prince talks as he pulls off pieces of armor and dumps it on the ground.

She can’t help but stare in awe at his figure. He’s a beautiful entity, a _god _of unfathomable touches and soft skin… She drinks in the sight, far superior to any alcohol. She doesn’t dare question how Sanguine got out of his armor so quickly. It’s a _dream _after all, and logic doesn’t have to exist in a dream. She doesn’t question anything when the Daedra’s nude figure climbs on the bed and over to her. She smiles in amusement when he lounges alongside her.

“Feel free to stare. Or,” the Daedric Prince intones each word with a delicious offer. “You can _join _me.”

She’s kissing him again before she can think twice. It’s hard to move around in the ostentatious gown, but she clambers on top of him and kisses the Daedra for all he’s worth. She’s a fluctuating mess of wild thoughts, rich emotions, and a growing need to grab and feel and taste and adore him. Her entire body could be a destruction spell from the fire that burns inside her. Her breathing grows stronger and her hands make for every inch of skin she reaches. She barely registers when he laughs. She doesn’t register him taking the opportunity to shift the two and shove her into the mattress. As long as she can steal his lips a second more, she’s satisfied.

“Sanguine,” She says the name with more confidence than before. She doesn’t miss how the certainty of her tone causes the Daedra to exhale and grunt in acknowledgement. It’s a bubbling, boiling vat of lust, and Kara cannot stand it. She wriggles against the Daedric Prince and moans when his teeth find her shoulder. She presses into his hands and stills when he begins to work the dress’ many layers off her body. As she watches him, she cannot help but ask. “Did you make it that color? Sanguine-red?”

“It’s _your _dream, Dragonborn. _Kara._” Is the Prince’s snarky response. She doesn’t have time to think of retorts; she feels his hands slip to her waist and the gown’s puffy skirt be hedged up. She’s forced to sit long enough for him to wrestle the apparel off her. Her under garments are not given the same mercy; she scoffs when he rips it all off her.

“I expect new ones.” Kara grumbles.

“I’ll make up for it.” He grins wickedly. His tongue begins to trail down her navel and she flushes bright red and parts her legs when it dawns her what he intends to do.

She’s glad it’s a bedroom, because the cry of raw pleasure and need when his tongue dips inside her is loud. She scrunches handfuls of sheets in her hands and exhales in short bursts while the Daedric Prince slowly explores. The warm muscle makes her sing a chorus of his name in increasing syllables. It pleases him; she feels the rumble of a satisfied growl against her groin in response. When a hand falls to her clit, the sings delve into higher pitched notes and she pleads his name dozens of times to continue. Obsidian fingers dance their way to her hips and he pulls her snug against him while the Prince greedily delves and traces her entrance.

She’s a sopping, sweaty mess by the time he draws back. He climbs up her body with the grace of a _god_ and his hands find her breasts. He massages them slowly. His fingers never quite stop at the perky, sensitive nipples, but rather outline and tease and tempt her into begging him for touch. She begs. Her face flushes red but she throws any dignity out a window; she needs him so badly she might burst if she doesn’t get release. She whispers his name in desperation and shudders in ecstasy when his fingers skim her flesh. He pulls himself further up the bed and kisses his way to her chest. His eyes remain locked on her face and she gives him every vulnerable, wanton expression that surfaces.

“You call me beautiful a lot,” the Daedric Prince observes softly, in hushed tones far quieter than the frantic panting of an aroused Dremora. “—But you’re _everything _I can’t be, Kara. All that beauty… That’s yours.” He kisses and sucks one breast. A hand creeps back to her thighs and slips between her legs. Her hands rake nails down his back when a finger slips inside her and begins to stroke the ceiling of her muscles.

She knows how pathetic it sounds but she doesn’t _care_. She whines and makes to pull him closer as his finger pumps in and out of her. When she’s drenched and slick and _waiting _for _more_, yet before she can orgasm from a finger, Sanguine retrieves his hand. He looks up at her and she looks at him with large, rounded eyes.

“Kara.” Sanguine’s smile is wicked. “You look like you want something.”

_“You.”_ The Dragonborn pulls him up by the shoulders until she can smother him in kisses. Her lips crash against his and she hears him growl. It provokes her to nibble on his lips and hiss impatiently. He doesn’t waste any more time; he draws back, spreads her legs, and thrusts inside in one quick motion.

The foreplay leading up to the moment helps, but it’s been too long not to need a moment of adjustment. She gasps at how quickly and suddenly he fills her, and at the heat that coils in her abdomen from the movement. Her legs lazily hook around him and she looks up with lust-filled eyes.

“I want you to move.” She whispers.

He does. The bed rocks and shakes and shudders from the Prince’s rolling hips and deep thrusts. He thrusts into her from behind, with the two on their sides across the bed. One of his hands keeps one of her legs in the air so the Daedra can easily access her pelvis. Even when her leg begins to cramp, she convulses and shakes against him. Her pelvis moves flimsily to try and meet his movement but Sanguine’s resolve becomes apparent when he slows and begins to emphasize every single gyration. He hums with satisfaction and grunts when she pushes back against him to draw out each stroke. It’s messy and nowhere near the decadent nature of his plane of Oblivion, and she’s positively certain neither of them care.

As he continues, he begins to grip her tighter and press deeper. Her entire body is sensitive and she whispers his name in pleas that slowly build. The fire in her belly is not yet satiated. When it’s obvious that one position doesn’t achieve what they both want, she stops and pants while he pulls out. His hands caress her body with warmth and he fondles and rubs each inch of skin. She looks at him and pushes him unto his back. The woman climbs and straddles the Daedric Prince. It’s a powerful feeling to see a _god _beneath her, with a look of sheer glee and utter adoration marring his sharp features.

She lines him up and lowers herself unto him. The feeling is immense and even though she’s stretched minutes prior, she moans from the sensation of being more and more filled. Her entire groin convulses in the warmth he offers. She feels her muscles tighten on him and the sharp curse he elicits fills her with a glow of pride. She shuts her eyes and slowly moves up and down. Sanguine’s hands fall to her hips and he grips her tightly while she rides him. His breathing speeds up and becomes more pronounced; her breaths shorten and she pants loudly and moans from each inch that comes and goes.

As pleasure reaches a tipping point, she opens her eyes and meets his. Her gaze locks unto the beautiful red eyes. She moans and squeezes him with her muscles. He grunts and begins to buck his hips into hers; the feeling makes her double-over in pleasure and she clenches her mouth shut against the urge to scream. Sanguine’s hands find hers and he squeezes them. He grunts and bucks his hips, again, again, again, until her mouth can’t hold the noise and she curses profusely and yelps the noise. When she brings herself down and he shoves himself up, the motion causes her to suddenly orgasm. Her back arches and shoves her hips down while her muscles contract around him. Sanguine growls and thrusts upward several times until he climaxes inside her. The sensitive muscles and the heat that gushes out to meet them causes Kara’s body to shake and lock up; she orgasms a second time clutching Sanguine tightly beneath her and repeating his name over and over.

For a time, there’s nothing but heavy breathing and the sound of Kara weakly pulling herself off the Daedra and collapsing in the bed next to him. She can’t muster the strength to lift her head up and stare, so she simply utters. “—Sanguine.”

“I still love you.” Is the response, and it fills her with a warmth as pure and fulfilling as the deep afterglow of sex.

“Even if I’m not,” Kara pauses. She shuts her eyes. “—If I don’t really remember you?”

“You remembered enough,” His words make flush red. “There’s a lot more things to remember, Dragonborn.”

She moans when his hands dip to her waist. His fingers creep to her thighs and stroke her pelvis. In her heightened sensitivity, Kara whines. When the Daedric Prince’s fingers rub her clit, she whimpers against him. She feels his hands retract and he pushes himself up.

“Relax, Kara. Relax…” He tells her.

She lets him turn her unto her stomach. She inhales softly when his tongue trails the small of the woman’s back. It goes deeper, and she buries her face in sheets to avoid the cry of pleasure that emits when his tongue meets the curve of her rear. She expects him to skip it, or to go around, but Sanguine calmly spreads her cheeks and presses his tongue against the taut muscle. She pants and moans when the tip of his tongue swirls around it. When he draws back again, she exhales sharply and looks back. “That was… That was…”

_“Indulgence,”_ Sanguine runs a hand to her clit. He breathes on it and Kara moans and shudders against him. As the Daedric Prince lines himself up with her entrance, she exhales sharply. She can’t stop herself from crying out his name when he penetrates her. It’s every bit as filling as it was before and the time spent resting only made her more and more desperate to repeat the action.

The Dragonborn clutches the bed as Sanguine moves. He rocks gently against her hips but the pace builds into a frenzy as lust takes hold over both Daedra and the two begin to push and pull and press and accept the other’s actions in desperation. The connection they share burns inside of Kara; she claws for everything Sanguine pushes into her and she shouts for more whenever he draws back. His movements send her into the pillows of the bed and she hears the bed creak and shudder from the two’s bodies smacking into the other. She feels the Daedra’s grip on her hips pull her unto him and she gasps and convulses around him as he finishes thrusting and climaxes inside her again. Kara collapses back on the bed and breathes slowly while she feels Sanguine finish pumping the rest of his ejaculate into her.

He smiles against her in small kisses. She writhes and turns to face him. Her cheeks are beet red but she stares at him until he obliges the unspoken request and kisses her to Oblivion and back. She melts into his embrace and when he finally draws away, she stares at him with an intensity befitting a true Daedra.

“I…” She can’t think of how to phrase thoughts. She kisses him instead. His smirk makes her greedy, but the rest of her body is too tired to try and attempt a round three. Or four. Her eyes flicker shut. A different thought crosses her mind, one that doesn’t involve sex with a Daedra for once. “…When I fall asleep in a dream—Where will I go?”

“You’d have to ask Vaermina.” Sanguine replies, amused. He grins and presses a kiss to her nose. “Unfortunately, we’re not on _talking _terms right now. Or _sexing _terms.” He snorts. “She prefers complete and utter _devotion. _I’m more open-minded.”

“I like that about you.” Kara admits softly. “…You understand that side of me.”

“Look at us. Two peas in a pod.” The Daedric Prince snorts. He traces circles on Kara’s hip with one hand. “Not even Sheogorath can tear us apart.”

“Sheogorath.” Kara snaps upright and stares at him with wide eyes. “I forgot—What Sullivan said—Sanguine, is Miraak actually coming here? Not here as in—I mean—Is Miraak actually involved in this? With Sahkriimir?”

The Lord of Debauchery grimaces. He rolls unto his stomach and props himself up on a pillow. “Yeah, yeah, Hermaeus Mora’s got a hard-on for the dragon spirit.”

“_Oblivion, _of course he would! They’re related to Alduin! World-Eater! One of the few entities capable of devouring _et’Ada _whole!” Kara rubs her forehead. “Miraak is… I can’t beat Miraak. He will kill me if I try. He will shout Sahkriimir’s soul into submission once he finds them. How can I deal with that?”

“…Still working on it.” Sanguine shrugs. He pulls an empty wine glass from under his pillow. A bottle of red wine follows. He pours himself a drink and flops. “—If it helps… Alduin’s in the region. Miraak can’t expose himself too early."

“….About that,” Kara’s eyes darken. She clenches her fists and looks away. “Mercer Frey's stolen Sahkriimir's thu'um. There's nothing holding Miraak back from finding Sahkriimir right now."

"You left them alone?" Sanguine pauses. "...Kara, Kara, Kara. That's not like you."

"I needed to. They're still healing. And if Miraak does show up, it isn't like me being there would make a difference. I'm not the same Dragonborn I was past cycle. This world's changed from madness," she grimaces at the thought. Sanguine pulls her to him and drapes an arm over her. She smiles faintly. "This is still kind of weird for me."

"Go on. Bad weird, good weird, Sanguine weird?" The Prince snorts.

"Sanguine weird." She shuts her eyes and sighs. "Will I... remember this? When I wake up?"

"Can't say. But I'm happy to remind you I'm here the next time you visit in a dream. There's a lot of fun things we can do together, and not all of them involve booze." The Daedra presses a kiss to her lips. Her face flushes brightly. His throat rumbles with satisfaction at her reaction. "Rest. You want to sleep. Sleeping inside a dream.... could only be accomplished by a Kara."

"An entire Kara."

"The only Kara I need is you." He whispers the words so lightly she wonders at first if they were real at all. Then her form relaxes and she holds unto his arm. Her smile lingers as she settles into the haze of a warm bed and warmer Daedra.

For a moment, the world feels at peace.


	29. we found our listener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the days following the departure of brynjolf, kara, and vex, sahkriimir comes face-to-face with a difficult topic and a deadly faction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for a mention of child abuse when mullokah talks about grelod
> 
> oh boy the dark brotherhood really is gonna make itself known now hehe  
this takes place during the days brynjolf kara and vex are busy traveling in ch 28

They never fall asleep after Brynjolf leaves. For several hours, all they do is flop across his cot and look through different books the Nord’s collected over years. At one point they crack open _The Lusty Argonian Maid _in curiosity, but the lack of plot development and candid lacking in over-the-top explicitness makes them shut it soon after.

They browse the stack of books they brought into the room the night prior; they routinely look over the collection of meager spell tomes they’ve since acquired from shoving gold at vendors in Riften’s streets. Most make zero sense, and they don’t anticipate actively using any of them—save for destructive magic and summoning Dremora butlers—soon, but they try to read them regardless. If they are going to walk the land until their Lord calls them back into service, they must make themself useful.

The first day goes by rapidly, with hours poured over reading. Though the second day begins likewise, come evening they dip out of the monotony of book-keeping and invite Mullokah on a walk around Riften. They laugh at the sight of Clucky donning a crudely-stitched rag, courtesy of Mullokah’s embroidery practice.

“Tonilia showed me how to sew! I’m gonna practice a lot and become good at it! I’ll make things to help you and Brynjolf out!” Mullokah grins ear-to-ear and nods at the words. The young Nord beams with pride at his work.

“…That’s,” Sahkriimir parts their lips. “A sentiment. Yes. A sentiment to hold unto, tiny Dragonborn.”

“Why do you call me that? You used to call me tiny _dovahkiin_, not a tiny Dragonborn.” Mullokah trudges alongside them, following their small steps around the plaza. It’s no surprise they find he glances occasionally at the spot where Brynjolf’s stall normally is; they too share in looking for the ginger-haired man to no avail. Mullokah sets Clucky on the ground and looks over shoulder. “Does it got to do with you not having your _thu’um_ no more, Sahkriimir?”

“…Something like that.” They wince and avert their gaze. Their hand subconsciously goes to their throat, the gloved fingers running over the human flesh with unease.

“I still think of you as one, y’know.” Mullokah nods firmly to the statement. He smiles brightly and points to a vendor. “—Oh!! The roll lady! We can go buy pastries from her—Do you have any gold on you?”

“Unfortunately not, little Dragonborn.” Sahkriimir’s hand gently pats the child’s head and they move on. “Perhaps another time.”

“When Brynjolf gets back—I want us to buy lots of rolls! And eat them together!” The youth treads after them with Clucky on his heels. “I think we should have a big picnic. We can each bring different food—And eat lots of food—And enjoy each others company! And Clucky can be there, too! It’ll be like one big—” Mullokah pauses. In a second, the youth’s mood changes and he wrings hi wrists nervously. “…Group of friends. A group of friends. Because you and Mister Brynjolf are my friends. And not my… parents. Not my parents.”

“Mullokah,” they stop walking and turn to face the child. “…If I could be… that… I would— But—”

“So why can’t you? Why can’t I have you as my family?” The youth demands to know. His eyes water but he doesn’t cry. He wipes his eyes and takes deep breaths. “Why can’t I have you as a _parent_, Sahkriimir?”

“I told you before,” they frown. Seeing the child like this, in such pain, it makes their entire body ache in agony. “I am not a good person. _You _are a… better person. You must find a family worthy of the sky.”

“So why can’t that family include you? You’re worthy of the _lok_.” The boy hiccups. He looks at his feet. Clucky clucks softly and pecks at his right shoe.

“I am not worthy of the sky, Mullokah, not anymore. Perhaps… never again,” Sahkriimir’s eyes dim. “But even if I was—I cannot be a parent—I am entrenched in a cycle of punishment! A world of chaos and madness and discord! I will not expose you to it! You’re a _child_—”

“I’m an orphan! My entire family’s _dead_.” Mullokah grits his teeth. He jabs a finger up at them. “And I… I’ve lived a lot of stuff! Seen a lot! I’m not _just _a child! I’m—I’m… I know what the dead headmistress did to lots of kids. To lots of them! I’m not _just_ a kid! I’m _dovahkiin_! I’m Aventus Aretino! I’m _mul-lok-ah!_”

“You are. But you are so young,” Sahkriimir bites their lip. They straighten upright and their eyes dim. “You are so innocent to the ways of the world, Mullokah.”

“I’m not.” The child stomps one foot and clenches his fist. “I’m not! I know how this world does stuff! I know how mean people can be! I saw it when Jarl Ulfric sent me to the orphanage in the first place! When Grelod the Kind was whippin’ me really bad! When you _ate her!”_

“Which is why you need to be _away _from me! I’m not a stable individual, tiny Dragonborn! I am,” Sahkriimir exhales sharply. “I am the Champion of a Daedric Prince, my Lord Sheogorath. I can’t be what you want—”

_Oblivion. _Is the only word on their mind when Mullokah begins to cry. He tries not to, and he tries hard, but he cannot be strong enough to protect Clucky and himself from all of the world. He blubbers long, hot tears and turns away.

Sahkriimir’s arms fall to their side; they flinch when they hear Mullokah sob out, “Then go away! I don’t wanna see you right now!”

“I can’t leave you alone in the middle of a crowded town.” They point out.

“I’m _not _alone! I’m a _dovahkiin_, remember? I’m a—” Mullokah sniffles and frowns. “I’m a _dovahkiin! _A _dovahkiin! _I can do shouts! I can—I’ll protect myself—So you don’t need to worry about me—Or stay around!”

“Mullokah—_Mullokah!”_ Sahkriimir grimaces when the boy runs off, Clucky following him avidly. They glance around a second before their mind is made up; they take off sprinting after the youth. But their body is still recovering; they do not have the physical stamina to keep up with the tiny Dragonborn. They follow him beyond the open market and into the back streets of Riften, only to lose him and Clucky in the twists and turns of the alleys. Sahkriimir gives up after a half hour of failing to find the boy.

They stop, panting heavily, on the edge of Riften’s eastern side, where the fishing vessels and merchant ships dock. Riften has a deep channel running from its eastern bay, the only one snaking to the north and allowing access to the coast. Though ice chunks floats on top of the water, the entire area has yet to completely freeze over. Sahkriimir frowns and stares at the waters. Occasional dock workers and crews continue working despite the cold; their resolve is impressive if not foolish. Sahkriimir cannot admire them when the cold doesn’t offer comfort, not anymore.

_Not that it did much when I was dragon. _They snort.

“…Brynjolf was right,” a quiet, sharp voice alerts them to another’s approach. Sahkriimir pauses and catches the sight of Delvin Mallory. He strides up to them and frowns. “You got a thing for the docks.”

“The waters are usually calming.” Sahkriimir states. They frown.

“Sometimes. If you don’t fall _in_. But you aren’t calmed, are you? Nah,” the older man’s arms rest at his sides. He puts his hands on his hips and stares at them. “That kid of yours came running by—”

“He’s not my_ child,_” Sahkriimir asserts. “—He’s his own Dragonborn.”

“Yeah, nah, anyone who sees you two knows you an’ Brynjolf are practically parents now.”

“Do you have anything better to say?” Sahkriimir’s old temper temporarily flares. Their body tenses. “Out with it.”

“…Brynjolf fancies a fiesty one.” The thief shakes his head. He grimaces. “Let’s take a walk, you an’ I. When it gets dark out, you dun want to mess ‘round these parts, Sahkriimir. One thief to another. I got rep backing me up. What protects you now? You got anything to ward off unwelcome attention?”

“They would attack a member of the thieves guild?” Sahkriimir bites their lip. They scowl. “Fools. Fools, all of them.”

“Speak for yourself. You got weapons on you? No?” Delvin gestures to their attire. They remain dressed in Brynjolf’s spare clothes. “—Yea, that’s obvious. Not even enchanted attire. Not even leathers over that outfit. No protection. I’d ask ya to talk to Tonilia, but she and Vekel got themselves a night out from the Flagon.”

Sahkriimir’s frown lingers. They clench their fists. “What can I do? I am not stealing another member’s uniform.”

“Here, I’ll walk ya back to the guild. Your kid should be there, too.” The Breton thief nods. He never smiles; they dislike the stark difference between him and Brynjolf. In comparison, Delvin seems so _serious _and solemn, if not a bit condescending.

_I’ve acted the same. _Sahkriimir reminds themself. _I am the same. I can’t judge the man. _

“I’ll go back. Lead the way.” Sahkriimir nods. They trail lightly behind Delvin as the duo walks the outer edge of the docks. Though they are initially suspicious of his convenient arrival, they soon let the thoughts die and will themself to calm. They cannot let their paranoia keep them on edge over every little thing! They were one of the _sky, _and of the sky one day they pray to return.

The sky mulls a gloomy dark gray, tinged violet and deep blue. Clouds coat the sky. They keep their steps soft and note how Delvin does the same. Even if they are not a member of the Dark Brotherhood, it appears the time spent practicing sneaking around ancient Nord tombs pays off. Their steps feel lighter than air. They fall in line with the shadows; though the cold nips at them, they feel a strange peace within the depths of their soul at the shroud of the darkness over their head.

“You know, Brynjolf mentioned somethin’ off the day he left. Said you were once Listener of the Brotherhood. That true?” Delvin’s voice is low. He’s a careful man, he constantly scans his surroundings while the duo trek alleys and navigate side streets.

Their eyes dim. They can only imagine what the dull gray irises look like, nothing like the shining silver gaze they once held. “…It is true.”

“You know. I’m former Brotherhood. Still got contacts with them. _Listener _is one of the highest ranks there is. Thing is,” the man gestures them to halt. They stop and the two peek around one corner, spying a line of guards marching up the steps to Mistveil Keep. Delvin glances back and parses his lips. “—There’s not been a Listener in the Brotherhood for years. If you’re Listener and my information's to date, then where in Oblivion you’ve been?”

Sahkriimir stiffens. The voice carries no hostility, but the questions are a calm reflection of what should have been obvious. They can’t go around claiming to be a former Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. There is _no _Listener. The Listener is the Dragonborn, or should be the Dragonborn, and unless Kara chooses to pursue the Dark Brotherhood in the current cycle—They can’t be Listener. It’s not right. It’s not possible. Their greedy heart vies for what they can’t obtain; they look away while feeling Delvin Mallory’s stare intensify. “…I do not have an explanation. Not one that makes sense.”

“I’m aware. You aren’t as sneaky as you look.” Delvin crosses the open street and makes a jog around the bend of the alley. Sahkriimir follows as quietly as they can, ironically with the same sneakiness the man claims they lack.

“—Does it matter? I am not Listener _now _and you are not Brotherhood _now_.” Sahkriimir eyes the man as the two reach the graveyard.

Delvin doesn’t answer until he’s at the coffin that holds the guild’s secret entrance. He feels the bottom-right corner of an ornate coffin and pushes the edge into place. It makes a grinding noise as the chain mechanism activates and the coffin moves back. Stairs leading to a ladder slowly emerge. The clean-shaven thief glances over his shoulder and gestures them to go first. They oblige, but only because he is a higher-ranked member of the guild.

Delvin looks down at them when they begin to descend the ladder. “Y’know, I didn’t formally _quit _the Brotherhood. Just… asked them to go back to Riften. Thieves Guild was my home.”

Sahkriimir keeps a firm grip on the rungs. They vaguely remember falling off them in the past, and they are through embarrassing themself. “What of it?”

The man continues to speak as both climb the ladder into the depths below the city. “—I’m less a member of Astrid’s sanctuary. She does her work, I do mine, occasionally we cross paths. But when we cross paths—It’s one of two ways. The Guild needs someone taken care of, or she needs information. Consider me their information dealer.”

Sahkriimir reaches the bottom and backs away from the ladder. Their eyes narrow as Delvin Mallory’s form comes into view. He steps back and turns to face them. They growl. “_What is this about?_”

“You know well as I do, Sahkriimir. _We know._” Delvin walks to their side and gives them a side-ways glance. “You might want t’make it up to your kid before you go.”

It clicks and a rush of chills makes Sahkriimir freeze in place. _We know. The Dark Brotherhood knows. The Dark Brotherhood… _

Vaguely, they recall when they shouted Brynjolf into submission months prior. They recall asking him about the Dark Brotherhood’s presence in Riften, and how he answered _yes _to the presence of _a _Dark Brotherhood member in the town. It never dawned on them the man might’ve referred to the former—not-so-former—assassin. They stare at him with wide-eyes while the words slowly slip out. “You… How long you been telling them about me?”

“Long enough.” The man states. “But not for the reason you think. Even tho you stole their kill.”

“How much time do I have?” Sahkriimir sputters.

“An hour, maybe? Dun try to run; Astrid wanted to pick you up yesterday. Bought you an extra day, I appreciate if you ain’t make me regret that decision.” Delvin grimaces.

Sahkriimir doesn’t acknowledge the man further. They feel the color drain from their face as they jog past him and look throughout the cistern. The guild feels so empty, with Vipir being the only one besides them, Delvin, and Mullokah present. What once brimmed with the lives of different thieves bustling about feels like a wilting flower about to die. Sahkriimir despises the notion and pushes it out of their mind while they call out for Mullokah.

They find Mullokah nestled in blankets with Clucky perched just next to him deep in the bunk hall. Sahkriimir frowns when they catch the youth’s eye, his head poking out of a mess of quilts and furs. They open their mouth to speak but the youth throws a blanket over his head and shouts a muffled, _“Go away!”_

“Mullokah, listen to me,” Sahkriimir strides to the bunk adjacent his and flops on it. Their voice must sound strenuous, because for once the kid listens and peeks out beyond the safety of his blanket nest. They sigh and hold their head in their hands. “I am sorry I upset you—I am not able to be your family right now.”

“Does that mean you can be my family eventually?” A glimmer of hope wafts through the boy’s voice. His eyes are big and round. He watches their every movement.

“—I do not know if I can ever be your family, Mullokah. I…” They shake their head. “I made a vow not to lie, little Dragonborn. I will not turn on that vow. The future is full of uncertainties. I know mine is full of punishment.”

“Who’d want to punish _you? _You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and Clucky,” the boy sits up. He grabs the dozing chicken; Clucky doesn’t stir despite Mullokah clutching the bird to his chest. The child’s eyes dim. “I don’t like it! It's confusing! Why can’t we be a happy family together? You and Clucky and me and Mister Brynjolf. I... even asked if I could call him dad.” Mullokah shakes his head. "He said yes, why can't you? Why can't we be a happy family together?"

They fall silent. It’s hard to pick words. They have so much to say but all they can muster is a solemn, “Dragons do not have families.”

“What?” The child blurts in confusion. “How can they not have families? Who raises the baby dragons??”

“In ancient times, dragons did not know the identifies of their… Blood-Father. Blood-Mother,” they fix their gaze back on him. The poor boy is lost on their words, but they attempt to provide context regardless. “I was once dragon, little Dragonborn,” they point a thumb at their chest. “—And when I hatched—I did not know my Blood-Mother. I should not have known my Blood-Father.”

“I knew my father. He went off to fight in the war. I think he’s dead.” The boy’s shoulders slump. “Why’s it bad to know your dad?”

“Because the lineage of a dragon is _irrelevant. _What matters is your _voice, _your essence, your true, raw, primal strength, little Dragonborn.” They pause when the child shifts off his bunk and moves unto theirs. He watches them with a coat of blankets hiding most of his body. Clucky naps lazily against him. When he says nothing, Sahkriimir takes it as a sign to continue. “The only parental figure dragons look up to is the Deity-Patron. _Akatosh._ He is… Time of a Time. The Dragon-Man. His blessing encompasses the voices of all dragons.”

“I don’t remember hearing about him at temples!” Mullokah protests, but he hushes when they hold up a hand.

“Little Dragonborn, his blessing lives and breathes in your soul. Even as we speak—Your _voice _is a gift from him. Do not doubt his will.” Their voice takes on a gentle tone and they lightly poke the boy’s neck. It must be ticklish, because he clams up and muffles a snort. Sahkriimir withdraws their hand. “Mullokah, my Blood-Father was and is a dangerous creature. Brutal. Ruthless—”

“Mean?” The boy interjects.

They smile faintly. “Yes, _mean_. He is mean, little Dragonborn. Do not forget that.”

“Is that why you can’t know him? Because he’s mean? Is he a bully like Grelod was?” Mullokah’s eyes grow big and round again.

“Worse.” They sigh, and quickly add, “I was associated with him as a young dragon. My relation to him poisoned my upbringing and clouded my judgement. I was not _kind_, little Dragonborn.”

“You’re kind to me!” Mullokah protests.

“If I had met you back then, I would have torn your spine from flesh and razed your home to the ground,” is the solemn, serious reply. They see the disbelief in the boy’s eyes, but they quickly interject. “—No lies, remember? This is truth, little Dragonborn. I tell you only truth right now.”

“You’re not mean _now_. Even if you’re old, you aren’t mean!” The boy is stubborn. He’s a true dragon, a being of the sky, for there is none as stubborn as one of Akatosh’s blood.

“We are getting off-track. Tiny dragonborn,” their gaze sharpens on his form. They sit upright and inhale. “The time I come from—Dragons did not have _families._”

“But we’re not in your time! And it’s not like you’re a dragon like _that_—” Even though the child refers to their lack of wings, of mane, of a tail, they can’t stop the color draining from their face. Mullokah winces and shuts up mid-sentence. He looks at Clucky and ignores them from that point on, up until they make to stand. His head snaps up and he blurts out. “Please don’t be mad—I’m sorry—”

“I’m not mad, Mullokah, I promise,” they mean every syllable. Their let their arms hang at their side and they watch him. “I do not know how to explain this to you, tiny Dragonborn. But I am not the kind of family you envision. I am as cruel as my Blood-Father. I am more selfish than him. I bring pain and sorrow to others.”

“Are you like that now?” The boy’s voice reflects defeat. It kills them to hear it, and it twists the knife in their gut to acknowledge they are the cause of it.

“…I know I am my past. I am my blood. I accept responsibility for it, little Dragonborn. I do not want you exposed to what I have been and what I may be.” The kneel next to the bunk. Their lips part but they hold the frown and force the words out. “You are a blessed soul, Mullokah. You will grow up to be a hero. You will find your family, make your own, build one beyond the bond of blood.”

“I just want you to be part of it.” The young Dragonborn’s eyes water. “I don’t know why you can’t be.”

“I will always strive to be your friend, little Dragonborn.” It’s an unspoken promise, for their words are bound in blood to speak only truth. “One day I will not be here. You must find your way in this world.”

“Are you leaving?” Their eyes widen. They see the tears fill the boy’s eyes and they make to stand. They watch Mullokah’s grip on Clucky tighten. “Why do you have to go? You _just _got back! It’s only been a few weeks. I don’t want you gone!”

“It’s not my choice.” Sahkriimir averts their gaze. It feels like a loop, like they’ve had this conversation with him before. But they understand why; he is a child. He struggles to process and understand just how complex the situation is, and they do not fault him for that. They know in time he will grow and mature. They doubt they will be present for it; their cycle is bound to end in punishment, and they pray to be far, far from him when the time comes.

“You’ll come back. You will, right? You’ll come back alive?” Mullokah pleads.

“I can’t answer that.” They confess. The response makes the child sob. They quickly add, “I will do my best, little Dragonborn.”

“Promise me! Please,” They see the streaks of tears on his face.

Sahkriimir would rather cut out their own heart than ever have to hear the child cry. It provokes a horrible, mortified emotion in them, one they desperately need to curb. For him to be unnhappy is one thing, but he is just a _boy. _He doesn’t deserve to be weighed down by grief and sorrow. They suck in a breath and oblige his request, “I promise, Mullokah. I promise I will come back to Riften.”

“Alive?”

“Alive,” Sahkriimir **promises.**

It doesn’t halt the tears, but the statement soothes Mullokah enough the boy can slowly begin to settle. He’s exhausted. They can’t imagine the emotions running through his head right now, both of mortal and of dragon wrapped into such a small form. It is hard enough for one to handle emotions as they occur in the form of _dragon_. For a _Dragonborn _to deal with it… It makes their chest ache.

It dawns on them, when the boy is asleep in a bed and they leave the bunk hall, how much the interaction feels like a goodbye. No matter their promise. They kick down the feeling.

Kara said Astrid would kidnap them. They will be kidnapped, taken away, whatever it is. They trust the Dragonborn not to lie about such matters. They pray Kara speaks truth, and that they will quickly return to Riften. _She will take us to a shack, won’t she? An abandoned shack. We will kill for her. She will extend us an invitation, and… _Their breath falls short and they freeze when they step into the central guild cistern. They acknowledge Delvin’s assessing stare. It is the sight of him backing away from a blond-haired Nord that makes their body stiffen and lose feeling.

“Hello,” The leader of the Dark Brotherhood has her hood pulled down and her mask off. Her eyes are as lethal as the dagger at her side. She dons black-and-red armor. Her hair splays around her shoulders. For most, she could be described as a beautiful harbinger of death. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Sahkriimir. Do you know who I am?”

“Astrid.” Sahkriimir inhales deeply. _I will not show fear. _They stride forward and ignore how both Delvin and Astrid alike briefly tense. They note the way Astrid’s eyes flicker from their body to the exit corridor.

_But you know this place, clearly. You are a capable leader, Astrid. You do not need to look where the escape routes are. No… You look for a comrade. You brought help. _They slowly let out a breath. Their resolve hardens. _I have taken a Blood vow to speak truth. I will not die here today._

“Delvin, I appreciate the assistance—And it’s _good_ to see you again, it is—But this is a matter of a blood debt.” The Leader of the Dark Brotherhood narrows her eyes. She turns back to Sahkriimir. “I’ve been told you’ll cooperate.”

“I will.” They state.

_“—I wasn’t done.”_ Astrid is far more terrifying in this universe, speaking with utmost authority and a calm, sly tone capable of filleting a man alive.

Here, they are little more than meat to be cut down at a moment’s notice; the only reason they ever had any power in the previous cycle was due to the fact Sahkriimir shared the role of Listener with Kara. _And I could shout. I could breathe in and compel her to kneel before me. Her and all others walking the land. _

“My dear,” Astrid pauses and eyes Delvin until the man backs away and retreats to the guild’s puzzle doors. When the thief disappears beyond the doors and shuts them, the woman continues. “You have made a joke of our… traditions. Claiming such an esteemed rank is _disgraceful._”

“As if you ever followed traditions, Astrid.” Sahkriimir can’t hold their tongue. The words are bitter. They clench their fists as anger begins to creep back into their body language, rolling off in waves.

“We’ve never met.” Astrid replies curtly. “You do not know me, Sahkriimir. But I know you _very _well. You were once Dragonborn. A little bird told me—"

“I know I’m not Dragonborn, _don’t say it!_” Sahkriimir jabs a finger her direction. Their snap their head to look at the exit corridor but find that Astrid’s companion has yet to emerge.

The Leader of the Dark Brotherhood snorts. “Temper, temper.”

They remember why they wanted to punch Astrid so badly in the past cycle. She is a careful, manipulative figure. She may be the current Leader, and the past universe’s Speaker, but she is _dangerous. _She provokes where she wants, she crafts a narrative all her own, and she takes steps to ensure a job is done correctly. If they had the ability to shout and breath the shout of Bend Will, now would be the time. But their lips are dry and their throat remains parched; the gap in their soul fills with an unholy void of an oblivion far beyond that of any Daedra. They are mortal. They walk the ground.

Astrid is far closer to the sky than they may ever be.

“What must I do to repay this debt?” Sahkriimir asks.

“If you were _Dragonborn_—An associate of mine wanted you to join us, Sahkriimir. To _prove _yourself capable of death incarnate. But,” the statements make Sahkriimir’s dirty-blond hair stand on end. They stare blankly at Astrid while she effortlessly shifts her enchanted dagger from sheathe to hand. “—You _aren’t _Dragonborn. Not anymore.”

“Do you plan to kill me?” Sahkriimir’s gaze darkens. They speak too soon, before the impact of their words can linger, “I may retract my promise to cooperate, Astrid.”

“Normally, blood debts are repaid in the death of others. Sometimes with the life of the one owned by debt,” the woman strides forward before Sahkriimir can react. Astrid doesn’t lunge or lash out, merely walks, and the calmness of it all is extremely off-putting to Sahkriimir. They don’t register the action until they feel sharp metal caressing the underside of their neck. Astrid’s words are sharper than steel as she advises. “I have… another use for you. Your blood debt will be collected on… in the life of another. And you will _not _fight back. You will not _breath _a word of this to the child.”

_“Sahkriimir!”_

The Dark Brotherhood didn’t come to the cistern to take _them_. Their life is worthless now, a loner of the ground while the Brotherhood lurks the shadows and dragons soar the sky. They came to ensnare a Dragonborn, for the youth was too enmeshed in the universe’s punishment to escape the madness of Sheogorath. The Brotherhood came to collect on a debt in a way that pierces as much as the sting of metal cutting into their flesh. They grab Astrid’s wrists and stare at her, no longer anger but shock. “—You can’t be serious—He’s a _child!”_

“Hey, hey, cool it, hey!” The dunmer’s voice fills the cistern and the assassin Sahkriimir identifies as _Gabriella _emerges from the bunk hall holding a squirming, fearful child in her arms. Clucky trots after the woman and kid, looking from one person to the next in confusion.

“Tell her—Tell her—Put me down—I want Clucky!" Mullokah thrashes and kicks. He’s a kid; he doesn’t know how to strike and there’s no force behind the actions.

“Invisibility spell,” Sahkriimir hisses the words aloud. They shove Astrid backward and curse profusely, all-too-aware of Mullokah’s presence in the room. They turn away before he can see the gash across their neck where Astrid coyly slit _just _the surface. They understand the message now. They know the purpose Astrid sees in them. _You want me to control Mullokah. You want me to make him obey. _

“Is Clucky the chicken? Aw, I bet she’d make a good stew,” Gabriella hums thoughtfully and grins ear-to-ear, revealing a set of fangs that could just as easily be more _illusion magic _than actual vampire teeth. The dunmer drops Mullokah to the ground next to Sahkriimir and Astrid, “So, how many we taking back with us?”

“Sahkriimir! She’s mean—She… Who is she?” Mullokah’s eyes are big and wet again. The child makes for Clucky and scoops the dark-feathered chicken into his arms, holding the animal tight against his chest. “Why are they wearing weird clothes?”

“…Mullokah,” Sahkriimir states calmly. “Do you remember when I told you I was once Listener of the Dark Brotherhood?”

“…Yeah.” The boy sniffs and nods. Sahkriimir helps him to his feet and ruffles his hair. He frowns. “But who’re these people? One of them kinda looks like…”

“He remembers me; impressive.” Astrid laughs lightly. “Tell him, Sahkriimir. Tell him who we are.”

“Only truth. Remember?” Sahkriimir’s words reflect the promise. “Only truth.”

“Only truth. No lies.” The boy mumbles and nods.

“…This is the Leader of the Dark Brotherhood. Astrid,” Sahkriimir keeps one hand over the injury on their neck. Whatever Astrid’s dagger is coated in, it appears to regenerate flesh faster, because the bleeding has already stopped. The skin is tender, but nothing more. “And this is _Gabriella,_” Sahkriimir makes a point of displaying the knowledge of the dunmer’s name. They need the assassins to stay on their toes, to remain on edge around them, or else they won’t ever be able to find a way out of the mess. “She knows illusion magic. She’s a dunmer. She’s also an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood.”

“The Dark—” Mullokah’s eyes widen. He inches closer to Sahkriimir and looks avidly from Gabriella to Astrid. _“The Dark Brotherhood?”_

“The one and only. We’re sorry for taking so long to get to your request, Aventus Aretino—”

“Mullokah. My name’s Mullokah now.” The boy asserts with a frown.

Astrid’s brow twitches. Her displeasure reeks. “Right, Mullokah… I wanted to come here and apologize to you personally. You are… so young. So much potential! Performing the Black Sacrament all by yourself? Impressive. I’m sorry someone else had to take your contract.”

“Sahkriimir did a good job,” Mullokah inches behind the short individual more. Clucky clucks softly but Mullokah’s grip doesn’t loosen. “They killed the old hag.”

“Real gruesome, too, Arnbjorn was impressed when he heard—” Gabriella shuts up when Astrid’s cold stare turns to her. The dunmer crosses her arms and shrugs. After a second, her confidence returns and she adds, “It’s true.”

“I wanted to extend a special invitation to you, Mullokah. You’re a special boy with a gift, you know. A very special child. Tell me,” Astrid crouches to be closer to his eye level. She offers a polite, formal smile. “Do you want to join the Dark Brotherhood?”

“Can I?” Mullokah blurts out the words. His eyes fill with a new gleam of awe. “Is—Is that why you’re here? To recruit me?”

“Well, little Dragonborn,” Sahkriimir ignores the way Astrid’s hand casually grips her Blade of Woe. Sahkriimir ruffles Mullokah’s hair and smiles, “They came here to see me. But it turns out—They want to see you, too. They want to know you more. It is not every day a tiny Dragonborn contacts the Dark Brotherhood.”

“I’m a tiny Dragonborn! I contacted the Dark Brotherhood!” Mullokah nods vigorously to his own words.

“You are, little Dragonborn. Which is why… we are going to go with them. Together,” Sahkriimir winces on the inside. But they know Astrid, and they know the Brotherhood, and they _know _the Dark Brotherhood will seize Mullokah by force and torture him until he obeys if there is any resistance. They will not let Astrid hurt the child. This is another game, one they remember well, and if they must play it to protect Mul—They will play, and they _will _win. They manage a smile. “Do you want to join the _Dark Brotherhood _for real this time?”

“Can Clucky join?” It’s amazing how quickly the atmosphere shifts, at least around the youth. Mullokah’s hesitation melts and he becomes chipper and enthusiastic about holding the chicken in the air. “Clucky can produce eggs! Help with food! She’s a good chicken, she’ll obey all the rules, promise!”

“…Clucky can join.” Astrid straightens upright. Her gaze lands on Sahkriimir and the individual meets the lady’s stare with one of resolve. “So, you are both coming, then! Good, good. I’m happy it turned out so well. I thought it would be hard to sell you on this.”

Sahkriimir touches a hand to their neck. They hate how their neck has become a place of triggers and tremors, pain and humiliation, but at least they weren’t forced into a flashback of Ansilvund in front of Mullokah or the Brotherhood. They politely stare at the leader of the Dark Brotherhood and eye the blond Nord carefully. “Whatever you need of us. I am sure we can find a way to accomplish that. I want to help Mullokah settle in.”

It’s diplomatic, too much like a mortal, but it’s what they need to say.

They stiffen when the boy tugs on their shirt. He looks up at them and beams. “Just wait until Mister Brynjolf knows you’re a member of the Brotherhood again! He’ll be so surprised!”

_Brynjolf. _Their heart aches. There isn’t a way to say goodbye, not unless they can pull something out of a hat in thin air. They pat Mullokah’s head and pause when Astrid’s gaze falls on their form. They quickly add, “You know, Delvin’s a former member of the Dark Brotherhood. If Brynjolf doesn’t hear it from us, I am sure Delvin will tell him all about it.”

“He’ll get the message.” Gabriella holds a hand to her mouth and laughs lightly. Mullokah doesn’t pick up on the eerie implication, because he takes it as a sign to grin ear-to-ear.

“I can’t wait!! When can we go? Oh, don’t you have to leave, Sahkriimir?” Mullokah pauses. He frowns and turns to Astrid. “I’m sorry, m’am, but I only want to go if Sahkriimir goes.”

“—My other thing can wait. Really,” Sahkriimir quickly assures him. They rest a hand on his shoulder and look at Astrid. Their lips twist into a _humbling _smile. “I think the Brotherhood is more important.”

“I’m glad you see it that way,” Astrid states curtly. “We have horses outside. You’ll ride with Gabriella. I’ll ride with Mullokah.”

“I want to ride with Sahkriimir! Aw…” The youth’s shoulders slump.

“You are an assassin in training now, little Dragonborn! You must obey the leader,” Sahkriimir huffs loudly. “Do you remember the _Five Tenets?_”

The words strike a nerve. They’re pleased at the reaction. They feel Astrid’s eyes narrow on their form while Gabriella stares. Mullokah is hopelessly oblivious about it all, a fact they are grateful for. The child holds up a hand while juggling control of Clucky in the other arm. “Um. I remember there are five. And they invoke the wrath of Sithis.”

“They do, yes,” Sahkriimir exhales softly. They have to be careful how they approach this; they don’t know the _extent _of Lord Sheogorath’s madness across the Dark Brotherhood’s Falkreath Sanctuary. They don’t want to provoke Astrid to cut them down too quickly, but they need to get _their _message across: they are not merely meat to drop, or a body to burn. They were once someone important enough to possess knowledge of the Tenets. “…Do you need help remembering them, little assassin?”

“Yes, please.” Mullokah frowns. “I want to be a good assassin.”

“Tenet One,” Sahkriimir speaks more boldly now. They keep their voice calm and controlled, with all the Order their pact gives them. “—Never disrespect the Night Mother.”

“To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis.” The child chirps.

“Tenet Two,” their eyes soften at how easily they remember the Five Tenets, burnt in their brain like the origin of the name they now abide under. “Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis. Do you remember the third one, little assassin?”

“Is that the one about possessions?” Mullokah frowns and squints. “Is that Tenet Five?”

“That _is_ Tenet Four,” Sahkriimir snorts. “Tenet Three: never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis.”

“I remember Four and Five now!” As the boy eagerly bounces up and down, Sahkriimir catches a strange look from Gabriella. They hold the dunmer’s gaze as Mullokah recites the last two tenets with ease, “Never steal from your Dark Siblings! To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis! Never kill a Dark Sibling! To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis! Did I get them right?”

“You did.” It is the dunmer that speaks next, voice full of disbelief and surprise. Gabriella’s composure soon picks back up and she grins devilishly at the child. “Lookit you, little assassin-to-be! How’d you manage that, huh?”

“Sahkriimir taught me. They know a lot about the Dark Brotherhood. They were once _Listener_. Oh, does this mean they get to be Listener again?” Mullokah turns attention to Astrid and sways back and forth. His bright smile is as sincere as the light in his eyes.

“…That’s a complicated topic. One we’ll have to discuss more in detail when we reach the sanctuary. Consider it a… no, for now.” Astrid sheathes her dagger. Her gaze avoids Sahkriimir, but the latter can _feel _the tension in the woman’s body posture. It’s too overwhelming to miss.

“Well, well, well. Guess I’m glad I get to share a horse with you, former _Listener,_” Gabriella eyes Sahkriimir with an intense emotion they cannot put a name to. “I got a couple questions.”

“Did you read it from a book? Is that where you learned of our Tenets? Sahkriimir.” Astrid clenches her eyes shut.

“I read it on a plaque,” they answer honestly. “A beautiful display hung on the walls of Dawnstar’s sanctuary.”

“Dawnstar’s sanctuary? What is that?” Mullokah asks when the group is ushered to the exit corridor by Astrid. His question remains unanswered. Gabriella goes up the ladder first, followed by Sahkriimir. Mullokah goes third and Sahkriimir assumes Astrid goes last. Clucky remains curled up in one of Mullokah’s arms all the while. It is still night when the four make the trek through shadows to Riften’s eastern gate. Two horses—one of them being _Shadowmere, _a horse of darkness and the Void itself—wait by the stable. There is no guards to stop the group on the trek, though Mullokah stiffens at the sight of Shadowmere and nervously asks. “—Do I _have _to ride on the scary horse?”

“She won’t hurt you. She knows her own kind.” Sahkriimir asserts.

“Is she a Dragonborn too?” The disbelief is adorable. They shake their head. Mullokah frowns widely. “Then what is she?”

“A member of the Dark Brotherhood.” Astrid cuts the conversation short. “Come here, you ride in front. I’ll be behind you.”

“Same set-up here, Listener,” the way the title is spoken carries a note of humor. Sahkriimir stiffens at Gabriella’s firm statement. They eye the dunmer’s amused smile but climb unto the latter’s white mare. Gabriella climbs into the saddle behind them and states. “This is Glass. Glass, meet Sahkriimir the _Listener._ Sahkriimir,” the dunmer pulls the back of the individual’s shirt to get their attention. They narrow their eyes, but Gabriella goes on anyways. “…You perplex me. I never got to tell you about my midnight rendezvous with unicorns and knitting needles… You knew my name; I assume you know everything else about me?”

“Tell me something, Gabriella.” They say quietly, voice a whisper while Mullokah protests the way Astrid hauls him unto the saddle. “…Do you believe in the old ways of the Brotherhood?”

“I believe Astrid knows what she is doing.” The dunmer shoots back the words. “I believe you are not Listener, even if you have an uncanny ability to… recall the Tenets. But I will entertain the notion—"

“Is it difficult to believe a random individual could be your faction’s beloved Listener?” Sahkriimir presses the issue. It’s a dangerous move, and one they wonder if they’ll regret when the woman laughs lightly.

“It is, yes!” Gabriella reaches around Sahkriimir to grab the reins. A snap of the reins and the horse takes off after Shadowmere; the four individuals depart Riften. As snow dances around Glass, Gabriella presses herself to Sahkriimir’s back and utters in the latter's ears, “We _found_ our Listener a couple weeks back, all lost in the snow. Perhaps you've heard of him? He goes by _Rune.”_


	30. feeling lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the twilight sepulcher, tempers flare when kara propositions the queen of murk and empress of shadow.

The night before the group reaches the Twilight Sepulcher, an awkward topic surfaces. Kara’s in the middle of sitting at the trio’s meager camp, head in hands and thoughts a mess of what needs to be handled.

She cannot remove the events of a dream from her mind. Though she’s yet to encounter the tall Prince again, her mind constantly returns to _Sanguine. _The name comes easier now, though many thoughts and memories remain absent or hazy at best. She can’t stand how much she misses him, nor can she make sense of how easy it’s been for her to accept his words. Just recently, the thought mortified her, but now that feeling could not be farther from the truth. If the events of the dream really _did _happen, then Kara knows things cannot be the same as they once were. She needs to see him again. It’s an insatiable urge to find a map to _Morvunskar _and chuck herself into one of the portals hypothetically there.

But that isn’t all, because things being easy would be _nice _and Kara doesn’t have nice things. She acknowledges the animosity that continues to linger between her and Vex. She cannot move on from the woman’s words of the time the trio departed the Thieves Guild. She recalls, crystal clear, how Vex spoke of her. All the time the duo spent fighting back-to-back, looking out for one another, and opening-up to the other, all of it feels like a _waste, _because part of Kara is bitter that the white-haired Imperial lady doesn’t _believe _her. She believed it for so long; she thought Vex believed her, too. Merely reflecting on the matter _stings_, because Kara’s feelings have not wholly dissolved and vanished: she still cares for the woman beyond platonic lines. 

“You coulda told us.” The Imperial woman’s words snip at Kara’s sides.

She grits her teeth. “Is _now _really the time for this? We are a half-day out from the border—We’re going to find the Twilight Sepulcher before we hit the border. We have to. I need all of us to stay focused.”

“Lass, with all due respect, I need _honesty, _or we ain’t going nowhere.” It’s agitating to hear Brynjolf, a conman of all people, talk about _honesty. _

Kara sighs. Arguing with the Nord won’t help. His eyes are dark and his expression is sullied by an anger that’s unlike him. Whatever she says—It won’t get anywhere, even if she has a point. All of them need sleep. She grimaces and stands. “I’m taking first watch. You two _sleep._ We’ll talk more about Mercer in the morning.”

“Don’t stab us in the back.”

“Vex, for the love of _Zeus—_” Kara’s hands tense to fists. She growls lowly. “Go to sleep!”

At least Brynjolf complies and rolls over into his sleeping roll. Part of her feels genuinely bad for him, but the other half of her knows it couldn’t be avoided. She couldn’t risk telling him Mercer Frey would betray the guild! She couldn’t risk blabbing the words to the second head of the guild when she initially suspected there might be a different traitor! Kara feels more and more annoyed as the night drawls on; she knows it is a kneejerk reaction and the two will get over it, but it still _irritates _her that the two dish out their emotions on her instead of looking at the bigger picture.

_I couldn’t tell you I knew Mercer Frey would probably fuck us all over, Brynjolf. The man’s practically your brother! Or… was. You don’t believe me in the original quest-line until Karliah coughs up Gallus’ translated journal. Like Hades, you’d have believed a random newcomer telling you Mercer had a knife aimed for your back! And don’t get me started on you, Vex, after you nearly beat me to a pulp over Sahkriimir’s drunken obscene nonsense. _Kara’s thoughts stew in the rage as time drags on. She never bothers to wake the two to take over watch. She finds the cold night air her only companion as the world transitions from darkness to dawn.

By the time either of her companions awaken, Kara’s already packed up nonessentials and readying her horse’s saddle. She doesn’t acknowledge either of the thieves until the three have set out for the day. Even then, it’s merely grunts of acknowledgement or grimaces at Vex’s sharp quips.

When the trio stumble upon the Twilight Sepulcher, it confirms what Kara already anticipates: the tomb’s door is ajar, with ectoplasmic remains scattered across the grounds. The old and sacred structure is a mess of cobwebs and snow drifting in. Kara ignores Brynjolf’s comments on being too _late, _she finds a place to tie her horse to that is both out of the snowy gales and offers adequate shelter before Kara dismounts. As she pulls gloves off and storms inside the temple’s outer grounds, she utters a sharp, _“Laas.” _

“Kara!” Brynjolf calls after her.

She pulls a torch from her backpack and lights it with a small destruction spell. The Dragonborn holds the torch up and looks over shoulder. “You can stay out there and mope if you want. I’m going.”

“Lass—You can’t just barrel into a _tomb!_” The ginger-haired Nord runs after her when she starts walking.

“I can, and will, and am doing so,” the Dragonborn retorts. She pulls a shortsword from a sheathe at her waist and tests the weight. From her shout, Kara knows no Draugr linger, and she knows from the ectoplasm remains there are no sentries. “Mercer and Karliah have already cut down the watch for this place! If there’s any hope of finding where they went next, it’ll be in the depths of the tomb.”

When a hand lands on her shoulder, she hisses and jerks away. Her eyes darken and she points the shortsword at Brynjolf’s head. He holds his hands up, hazel eyes narrowed on her brown ones. “Lass. Calm down. This isn’t a walk in the park! I’m not having you run ‘round and get cut in two by swinging axes or dropped into spike pits.”

“He’s right, Kara.” Vex scowls when she catches up to the two. The woman’s white hair splays around her shoulders; it’s grown in past weeks.

“Oh, now _you _want to talk to me, Vex?” Kara’s words are full of venom.

She’s overwhelmed and stressed. Too many things run through her head; she needs to keep moving and calm at her own pace. Kara ignores the two and trudges forward; she knows enough about tomb-delving to keep an eye out for pressure plates, trip-wire, and sudden drop. To their credit, neither Brynjolf nor Vex comment on her attitude again until Kara steps into a grand chapel-like chamber deep in the tomb. Only then does Kara stop and exhale sharply, out of breath and tired from endless walking in what feels like circles.

“Can I talk _now?” _Vex remains snappy.

“That depends—Are you two going to keep nipping at me over Mercer? Because I already told you—I _couldn’t say shit,_” the woman’s fists ball up around her torch and shortsword handle. Kara’s eyes narrow and jump from Vex to Brynolf, but the anger returns in greater strides when she looks back at Vex. “—You two know that, right? Sahkriimir and I were newcomers to the Guild. I couldn’t go around accusing your long-time friend and _guild master _of murder and intent to commit!”

“Would’ve been nice to know before Mercer went off and stole Sahkriimir’s voice.” Brynjolf states. His brows narrow, but he remains much calmer than the previous evening.

Kara scoffs. “Brynjolf, listen to yourself. Back then—You still _trusted _him. Besides—I didn’t know if he was responsible _this time. _I tried to give him benefit of the doubt. He played me, he played you, he played all of us and everyone else in the Thieves Guild!”

“Do you not trust _us_, Kara? What, you thought we’d go off and act without thinking it through first?” Vex growls.

_“You_ don’t get to talk to me about trust.” Kara replies curtly. She sweeps forward and begins searching pew-like benches stretching nigh the entire width of the room.

“Clearly, we have to talk at _some _point, Kara, _Oblivion,” _the white-haired woman matches her steps and trails behind her. Vex is stubborn. The Imperial thief grits her teeth and jabs Kara in the back when Kara doesn’t answer. “Kara!”

“No—No—Don’t. _Don’t._” Kara spins on her heels and spits the words. She lets her anger unravel in each carefully-enunciated syllable. “Y’know, Vex, maybe Brynjolf is right. Maybe _he _deserves to feel outrage because I didn’t share Mercer Frey’s _grand plot to steal a dragon’s thu’um. _But you? You have no excuse. You’re angry with me because I’m not letting _it_ go. ‘Cause _Zeus _forbid, and every other deity you think isn’t real forbid too, that a person feels _upset _at shit you say. But that’s me! Congratulations. I’m _upset _you lied about believing me. I’m upset you made me think you actually…” It sounds ridiculous. It _is _ridiculous, but it is also her life. Kara averts her gaze. “I actually thought you understood me. Believed me. That someone in this mess of madness did... I can’t trust you.”

Kara sheathes her short sword. She’s not a brutal, bloodthirsty _dov. _She doesn’t feel relief at cutting down enemies anymore. The universe is different and, likewise, so is she.

“I’m going to find Nocturnal and have a chat.” The Dragonborn’s words are quiet. She turns away from Vex and exhales softly. “I… don’t really care if you follow or not. Both of you. _Laas yah nir!_”

No life beyond the two specks of red around her, and a speck of red further in. Part of her wonders if she’ll get to meet the Thieves Guild former leader, Gallus. The other half of the Dragonborn hopes not. She can’t deal with current events as is, and the introduction of more, readily-complicated emotions might make her scream at a wall for hours. Kara makes her way to the back of the chapel and feels along the wall. She hears Vex and Brynjolf go back and forth at one another somewhere else in the room. Kara parts her lips when her hands find a gap in the wall; she hisses and pulls a hidden, sliding wall to one side. A set of stairs lit by enchanted torches hung in wall indents comes into view.

It smells terrible. Kara grimaces and pinches her nose as she walks down the stairs with a torch in hand. At the bottom is a long, winding corridor, and though Kara doubts any traps remain, she takes care to keep an eye out just in case Mercer Frey and Karliah left something behind for the trio to deal with. She can’t get the aroma of death out of her nostrils the further she walks.

_There’s no Draugr here. The Nightingale sentries are dead. Doors left unopened. _She despises what it points to, and the admittance of such. Kara hates thinking Mercer Frey is quick on his feet, but the man is notorious for being one step ahead up until the final confrontation between the Thieves Guild and him in _Skyrim _the video game. _This place looks different than I remember it. Less darkness. Maybe it’s my memory faulting again. _

When the corridor ends with another set of double-doors, things fall into place and confirms her suspicions. As Kara opens the doors and steps into a new chamber, her eyes widen. Among the ancient architecture and elegant stone pillars holding the world up on their shoulders, is a display of ornate pedestals lined with decadent silks. Shelves of old tomes hang off walls, and spectacular stained glass coats the walls. An iridescent shimmer drifts across panes of violet, indigo, and deep, dark blues, one which Kara can only discern as _magical_. A great oval pool, full of clear water without a source, rests at the far end of the chamber just beyond the pedestal. There’s no cobwebs in this section of the Sepulcher, but there is a body.

Kara grits her teeth at the sight of the dunmer’s slashed throat and filleted abdomen. She doesn’t doubt the death was painful. Mercer Frey wouldn’t let Karliah get away without punishment. He’s a cruel man, and though Karliah deserves only death for her actions in Ansilvund, Kara has enough compassion to wish it was quicker than the look of agony smeared across Karliah’s corpse.

“…Karliah,” Kara greets the body when she strides forward and kneels near the corpse. It’s in a state of decomposition, beyond rigor mortis and past a dead body’s natural gases causing it to bloat and expand. _“Laas yah nir._”

She sees the red aura in the wall to her right. Kara ignores Brynjolf’s stare and Vex’s sharp intake. The two can put two and two together. She holds her torch up as she approaches one pane of glass, where a specter’s soft teal glow lights the wall from beyond.

“Karliah. You are a Nightingale, sworn to serve Nocturnal in death and in life. We are intruders. You _will_ face us.” The Dragonborn states sharply.

“She’s here?” Vex stammers.

“…Dragonborn. Mercer told me there was another.” It’s a sad tone, soft and solemn.

Kara’s grateful for the fact Karliah’s specter wears the Nightingale armor in death. It’s a good look for the dead dunmer, or at least as good as a murdered individual can get in passing. The woman frowns and steps to the side, allowing Karliah to shift and move to the great pool of water. The Nightingale ghost stands in front and slowly unclasps an ethereal bow from her back; a ghostly arrow is drawn and notched.

“Brynjolf.” Karliah’s spirit whispers in greeting. “It’s been a while.”

“Lass.” The Nord’s eyes narrow.

Kara joins Vex and Brynjolf in front of the Nightingale sentry. The Dragonborn crosses her arms and states, “—So he got you too. Bet you weren’t expecting that, after he’s betrayed you, and Gallus, and the _entire Thieves Guild _over-and-over in past resets, Karliah. Or were you?”

“I am a Nightingale to the end, Dragonborn.” The spectral figure replies. “I must always seek out Lady Nocturnal’s will.”

“Even if her will involves tying someone down and torturing them half-to-death? Cutting a soul in two? I’m aware of what Nocturnal’s artifact does,” the Dremora’s voice is curt. _“You sicken me.”_

“I am sorry about your friend, but I will not go against my Prince.” Karliah’s ghost is stubborn.

If Gallus is a father figure to Brynjolf, and Karliah was involved with Gallus, then Kara can’t help but wonder if Karliah’s stubbornness rubbed off on Brynjolf over time in a pseudo-motherly relationship. She furrows her brows and grimaces. “Okay. You won’t disobey Nocturnal. _I will. _I’m going to rip a hole through her prized Sepulcher and hunt her down in the Evergloam myself if you don’t get me an audience with her.”

“Lady Nocturnal cannot be reached without the Skeleton Key, Dragonborn.” Karliah’s grip on her ethereal bow tightens.

_“Mul qah div.” _The shout of Dragon Aspect goes into effect instantly. Kara doesn’t know what to expect in the way of looks, but she’s pleasantly surprised to find out the shout manifests the same as before: ethereal white scales, the edges dipped in gold, glow and hover over her form. The woman walks forward without fear; not even Karliah’s arrow aimed at her neck stops her from reaching the specter.

Karliah’s face remains hidden behind an ethereal Nightingale mask and hood.

“You’re aware of the resets, Karliah. I don’t doubt you’ve overlooked how Mercer Frey murdered the sentinels and Gallus’ ghost here on his way out. That’s why you’re the only one left. You’re the last Nightingale protecting the portal to the Evergloam, to Nocturnal’s plane of Oblivion,” Kara looks beyond Karliah’s ghost, at the grand pool of water. “—We never met in the past universe. But I hope you remember the universes before that… the ones where we serve Nocturnal together. You, me, and Brynjolf.”

She can feel the Nord’s eyes on her back. Kara ignores his stare and continues. She needs to talk quickly, to allow time for her to utilize her shout’s strength and break open the portal to the Evergloam if Karliah doesn’t cooperate.

“…Right now, your Lady’s goals align with ours. I need to speak with her. You have to call her here.”

“You just threatened to hunt her down and execute her—Execute Lady Nocturnal!” The ghost’s tone lowers to an outraged whisper.

Kara smiles faintly. “I am giving you a chance to cooperate. It’s a _lot_ more than you gave Sahkriimir. It’s more than Mercer Frey offered you and Gallus. We can work together again, Nightingale.”

The dead dunmer sighs. She look down at her own corpse, or at least Kara suspects she does. She isn’t certain everything that runs through Karliah’s head given the elf was willing to work with Mercer Frey in the first place. To her relief, the specter quickly answers, “Alright. I will call Lady Nocturnal’s voice here.”

“One thing first,” the Dragonborn pauses. “When did you die?”

Karliah’s ghost stiffens. “…That’s…”

“By the Nine, Kara, that’s a loaded question.” Vex mutters under breath.

“We need to know how long it’s been since Mercer Frey booked it out of here,” Kara snaps in response. “Clearly, this lead went nowhere. I need a time frame to work with.”

“Weeks ago. Possibly as much as five… It is difficult to keep track of time here, Dragonborn.” Karliah shakes her head.

“He knew where the Sepulcher was at the start. We were never going to find him here.” Kara sighs. “Karliah, call Nocturnal.”

“Just like that? We’re going to talk to a Daedric Prince?? Like talking to the asshole that mage summoned once wasn’t bad enough?” Vex’s voice reeks of disbelief.

“If it will lead to Mercer, so be it.” Brynjolf grimaces and crosses his arms. “Go on, lasses. We’ll be here.”

When Karliah gestures for Kara to step to the brim of the pool, she obeys. She glances over her shoulder at Vex and Brynjolf on the opposite side of the chamber. The two have moved back, and for good reason; Kara knows she would do the same if their positions were switched. Only a fool consults a Daedra. Kara is the fool to do so, whether it is Sanguine, Sheogorath, or _Nocturnal. _

“I call upon you, Lady Nocturnal, Queen of Murk and Empress of Shadow!... Hear my voice and heed the call of your Nightingale!” The ghost shouts at the pool.

For a moment—Nothing happens.

A heinous pool of darkness bubbles through the clear liquid. Kara’s eyes narrow and she stares the darkness in the eye as shadows take form and swirl across the water, leaving it marred with something akin to black ink. _But it isn’t ink._ She knows the waters swarm with the unlit depths of Nocturnal’s great power. She’s dealt with Daedric Princes before yet, even as an ethereal purple light begins to dance and cause the water to bubble, she feels her own hair stand on end.

“Ah,_ Karliah…”_ Nocturnal’s voice is a wretched, beautiful thing. The purple light swirls and spirals up and down, in and out of the dark waters of the pool. “You’ve brought _visitors _this time—”

“Nocturnal.” Kara says the words before she has time to think through what she _looks_ like, what she _is_, or what she’s _doing_. Her brows furrow behind the glowing, ethereal helm granted by her Dragon Aspect shout.

“Kara Dragonborn.” It’s not shock, but amusement that reaches out and encircles Kara’s soul. She feels Nocturnal’s humored perception flicker like leaving shadows. “You’ve made quite a _mess _of things in the Planes. I knew Sanguine was a fool, but this goes beyond the low standards he possesses. To think he would make you a _Daedra._”

“What does she speak of, lass?” Brynjolf questions from the back of the room. He’s flabbergasted. She doesn’t blame him.

_“Shush,_ Brynjolf,” Kara exhales softly and looks forward. “Nocturnal, let’s put any matters of _Sanguine _aside. I’ve had enough of him for the day. And night. And, honestly, the week, if this week’s any indication how confusing this universe is,” she rubs the back of her head and sighs. It’s hard to navigate a conversation with someone she _knows _would snatch her soul up in a heartbeat while simultaneously pretending to be her _understanding brethren._ “—I’m here to talk business.”

“Business is what I am known for, Dragonborn! Or should I call you _Daedraborn?_ You’re barely the soul of a dragon even _now_,” the pool of water bubbles violently a second before it calms. Purple light hovers in the air near Kara’s head. “Seeing how you’ve convinced my Nightingale to call me to my sanctum… What can you offer me, Daedraborn?”

“A transaction.” Kara grits her teeth. She’s had some time to consider what and how she could play Nocturnal’s desires to her advantage. She knows the Daedric Prince seeks the Skeleton Key.

“I’m listening.”

“I am offering you my service in separating Mercer Frey’s head from his body. With it, I will retrieve your _holy artifact _and return it to its rightful place in the Sepulcher.”

“Your terms are…?” Nocturnal’s voice dances in violet lights.

Kara frowns. She tucks hair behind her ear and shivers. The proximity of the Prince is bone-chilling. “You will not possess the thu’um of the _zaam mey tiid. _Sahkriimir.”

“Acceptable.”

“I’m not _done,_” the Dragonborn shifts her weight from one leg to the other. She sucks in a breath and adds. “You will cease ties with Hermaeus Mora _immediately._”

“Easier said than done, dear Daedraborn,” the voice croons in response. “We are allied, him and I.”

“Bull, all of it, don’t lie to another Daedra!” Kara snaps. Her brown eyes darken. “It is a temporary truce. No one trusts the Gardener of Men! Not even his _allies! _Not even his _champion! _I know your lore, Nocturnal.”

“Ah, yes, you were once the consumer… Funny how life works out. Did the fall off that mountain hurt?” The light twists and turns, sneering in unison to the words.

“The view was to _die _for.” Kara retorts dryly.

“Did I strike a nerve? My, my, you should reel in your emotions, Daedraborn. The others will pick up on every crack in your armor. Or they’ll wait for it to _fade. _Your shout does not last forever.” Nocturnal hums thoughtfully. The water gurgles and splashes in the pool.

The Dragonborn grits her teeth. She needs to focus. “I have one more _term._”

The lights of Nocturnal’s aspect shudder in delight. “Speak, no one is stopping you.”

“You can bless others with luck. I want it. One of your blessings. I need it for when I deal with Sheogorath—And I _will _deal with him, I promise you.” Kara says.

What comes is laughter. It’s not light, not pleasant, not booze-filled or merry, it is _nothing _like any laughter she’s heard of before. Kara’s form tenses and she eyes the pool of water as the purple light overhead howls and roars in hilarity. By the time Nocturnal calms down, Kara’s ethereal armor has begun to fade and, much to her dismay, some of her confidence departs with it.

“This offer is not weighted in my favor, Daedraborn. Neither are _you_. I sense your animosity… You do not come as a Nightingale, but a leech. You want what I can offer. You seek the blessing of the night. But your side of the deal is substantially _lacking,_” Nocturnal whispers the last sentence.

Kara’s fists clench. She sucks in a breath and shouts, _“Yol toor shul!” _

The shout of fire blasts apart the water in the pool. The shadows scream when exposed at the base of the pool, forced into light by her doing. Nocturnal shrieks and screams in fury, “You _dare _desecrate my holy water?!”

“You have the ghost of a Nightingale guarding your Sepulcher,” Kara hisses the words and wipes her lips of soot. “She’s bound to serve you beyond death. But she can’t find Frey. So here is _my _offer, just to clarify what’s in the fine print.”

The chills in the room make her shudder, but she ignores them and carries on.

_“Mercer Frey will die._ Whether I hand the Skeleton Key off to _Sanguine _or not is up to you. I’m more than certain he’ll find a use for it,” The Dragonborn snaps. “I was once _duin, _Nocturnal. Did you know what it means in the _dov_ tongue? That it translates to devour master? I’ve been doing some thinking: devour master, _devourer, _fits the players of _Skyrim _the video game so much more! It’s what we’re here to do. It’s what _I _am here to do. I’m going to devour your world, your followers, and yourself, unless we come to terms with what’s on the table!”

She can feel it in her blood: the power of a world beyond that of mortals, the blessing of a Dragon-Man and Time itself, the embodiment of _all that is and will be _wrapped in the body of a Dremora. She was once consumer, devourer, of _Earth; _she has changed but it remains imprinted on her soul, the memories and words of the planet she once called _home_. It is her leverage against the Prince, the tricks she guards with her life.

"You are a fool, Daedra!" Nocturnal’s light takes shape of a fluid, slim figure, adorned in robes and dressed in ravens. The Daedric Prince’s scream causes the walls to shake and the ground to rumble. “You—Have _no idea—What you’re messing with! A tiny Daedra! _A Dremora! You cannot _fathom _the power you face!”

“I can, actually. I’m on _Mundus, _and you’re in _Oblivion, _and my patience runs thin, Nocturnal.” The Dragonborn growls. “You won’t bring the walls down. Not on your Sepulcher! Not until you have your key!”

“I will tell every last soul, Daedraborn, let all us Princes hunt you and rip you to shreds! You won’t reform in the Void! Your soul's bound to cease existence! _Return to dust!”_ The Prince’s light turns black and becomes a mist. “You will beg for mercy!”

“And I’ll find none!” Kara shouts back.

“Not even darkness! Not even light!”

“Neither Anu nor Padomey will save me, not even Change itself, nor the Everything, nor the Divines, the Aedra, Daedra, _none_ of them,” the Dragonborn snaps. “Let it be, Nocturnal! I will write my own destiny—I will not let others dictate my fate! Into the End itself, I’ll embrace it!”

“You are a foolish soul,” the Daedric Prince hisses. “It is your undoing.”

“It always was.” Kara spits at her feet. She seethes with frustration at not only the Daedra, but at Brynjolf, at Vex, at everyone and anyone who has gotten in her way and failed to see _perspective. _

“I write these terms! You bring me my Key, you bring me three new Nightingales, and you purge Mercer Frey from the lands—” The purple light roars, the shadows quake, and the chamber falls into silence before Nocturnal whispers in her ear. “I will grant you your blessing of luck at a price, Dragonborn. You seek fortune and favor against a god, and what you desire will be granted. But you will offer me your service. You will not know when, you will not know where, and you will not know _what _it is I ask of you. But you will comply, lest your soul be thrown into the depths of the Evergloam in unbridled debt to the Queen of Murk.”

“I will not kill for you.” Kara barters in a breath. “I will not make others kill for you.”

“The contract is written! The transaction complete!” The light begins to dissipate. A thrall of energy crawls out of the shadows of the room; it drags itself to Kara’s form and melds into her body while Nocturnal's voice bellows. “Let it be done, Dragonborn! Your request is approved! The conditions granted! You will decide your fate in the throes of the End, a despair to devour the world!”

When the Daedric Prince dispels her aspect and returns to the Evergloam, Kara heaves and coughs. Nausea overwhelms her body and her knees give out. She falls to the ground, on the edge of the pool, and stares at the crystal-clear water. She can feel the darkness of Nocturnal’s blessing seep through her soul: it is a viscous feeling, akin to a grub crawling up and under her skin. She wants to throw up, but nothing comes out when she tries. She feels Karliah’s spectral form step away and someone else move to her side. A hand rests on her shoulder. She looks up and frowns at the sight of Vex, face paler than a ghost, looking down at her.

“I’m sorry,” the Imperial thief breathes the words softly. “For not believing you.”

“You died at Solitude,” Kara hisses under her breath. She shrugs off Vex’s hand and stands on her own accord. The Dragonborn’s eyes water, but she’s too angry and weary to cry. She jabs a finger at Vex and snaps. “You _died _at Solitude! You hear me? Gulum-Ei killed you, Vex! He cut your throat! He left you bleeding on the ground and…” She shakes her head and walks past the speechless thief. “I made a deal with a devil for _you. _I gave up a part of myself to keep you alive! To have a second chance at life! And after all of this—You really didn’t believe me.”

When she strides to Brynjolf, the man is solemn. His eyes lock with hers. “Lass.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about Mercer Frey. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.” Kara says softly.

“All’s forgiven. Are you alright?” The man puts both hands on her shoulders. She peers up at him, but she shakes her head. He exhales softly. “I’m sorry.”

_For a lot of things, _Kara receives the unspoken message following his words.

“I’m still alive.” The Dremora shakes her head. “I will live through this. Let’s get back to Riften.”

“We don’t know where Mercer is.” Brynjolf points out.

Kara casts a meager flames spell on her torch. She doesn’t remember when it was blown out, likely at some point mid-conversation with Nocturnal, but she doesn’t care. The woman looks at Brynjolf and manages a half-hearted smile. “That’s okay.”

“That’s okay?” The Nord’s brows rise in confusion. He retracts his hands and rests his arms at his sides.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Kara shrugs amicably. “But we’ll find something the way home. Guess you could say I’m feeling lucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading!!!!  
this was a hard chapter to write but i feel good how it turned out :0


	31. the pretend listener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the dark brotherhood welcomes two new recruits. as listener, rune makes a point of getting to know more about them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this very special chapter is from rune's perspective  
because i havent forgotten him i PROMISE

It’s not easy adjusting from a life of riches and pick-pocketing to a world of darkness and empty rooms. The Dark Brotherhood in Falkreath’s Sanctuary is a small, quaint group with little going for it beyond himself and Niruin as newest members. As Festus Krex explained when the elderly mage first brought the two in, there hasn’t been a _scourge _of activity like new recruits in years. The last time the blond-haired leader of the Brotherhood took anyone under wing, it was Delvin Mallory of the Thieves Guild, and _that _was back in the days of the Thieves Guild’s former leader, the late Gallus. Two new recruits suddenly popping up out of the cold is equivalent of a dream come true for the dying faction.

Ironically, it has been a twisted dream for Niruin, and more or less a nightmare for the tall, dark-haired Imperial thief-assassin. Rune knows better than to be ungrateful at the hospitality _shown _by the members of the Dark Brotherhood, but him gaining the ability to talk to old dead women is not how he anticipated most of his days. Since the jester first arrived and paraded around the _Nightmother_’s casket, Rune’s felt nothing more than unease. It doesn’t help the second he stepped into the room housing the corpse, he was bombarded by ethereal whispers marking him the newest Listener of the Brotherhood. Niruin doesn’t help, either! No sooner than the wood elf caught wind of Rune’s new _abilities _did the bosmer start offering shit takes on the matter.

If Astrid hadn’t gone off with the bosmer and Festus to Volunruud weeks back, Rune reckons he might have cut his old friend’s throat then and there. It’s been a rush of drastic-adjustment and new information coming to light, as the months meld from a near-death via Skyrim’s lovely winter snowstorms, to embracing the life of a Brotherhood initiate, to trying to outrun Cicero’s embarrassingly bad stories. It’s a _mess, _and Rune is stuck in the middle of it. He doesn’t know what to say or do besides relay information to Astrid whenever the Night Mother offers something, and in the weeks that pass he finds very little information comes. Though the contract of Amound Motierre _unfortunately _confirms his position as Listener in the Brotherhood, he isn’t equipped to deal with such sudden prestige.

He wants to make gold, bed hot men, and get his bloody rock back from Kara in Riften. He isn’t in position to up and leave, nor can he stand the thought of dumping Niruin’s ranting and raving ass with the murderers. For now—He struggles to adjust to his newfound responsibilities and get to a point he _can _ditch the Brotherhood in favor of his favorite guild.

“I don’t _understand_,” a tan-skinned wood elf remarks one day in the sanctuary’s well-heated dining hall. Niruin’s dressed head-to-toe in the form-fitting black-and-red shrouded armor, something that almost makes him look appealing to the eye. “Why aren’t _you _happy here? This place is a _buzz _of excitement! The Motierre contract will bring glory to the Brotherhood! A fame to spread fear in the hearts of all across Tamriel!”

_Almost appealing… Yeah, I wish. _Rune grimaces. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Even at the insistence of multiple Brotherhood members, the tall Imperial man has yet to begin wearing the shrouded armor. Something about the Thieves Guild uniform feels right, and long as he isn’t being set out on _contract_—he doesn’t feel good about the idea of killing on a regular basis—he isn’t required to wear shrouded attire.

“Niruin, I’m not… _complaining_. I’m pointing out this isn’t what I’m used to.” Rune pinches the bridge of his nose. He stiffens at the sound of someone coming down the stairs to the dining hall, and his eyes drift up to the sight of an Argonian talking to a young girl. _Or what looks like a kid. That’s the vampire. Babette? Divines, I forgot the Argonian’s name already. _

“Look who we have here!” The ‘young’ vampire sports a toothy smile as she trots down the stairs. She wears child clothes, which doesn’t help Rune in remembering she _isn’t _a kid. Babette’s dark eyes sweep the dining hall before settling on Niruin. “You didn’t bring me any ingredients, elf. Tsk, tsk. You promised me snowberries in exchange for the potion. I am _not _going out in the snow!”

“With all due respect, Babette,” Niruin’s sly smile lingers. He props himself up with one elbow on the table and uses his free hand to gesture at Rune. “I was _so _busy listening to our favorite Listener! His voice is a herald and a half to behold.”

“An excellent point,” Babette laughs at the thought and sits across the dining hall table, directly opposite Rune.

The Argonian stops short of a chair and glances at the Imperial man. “…I mean no respect, Brother, but I am not yet comfortable calling you by that title.”

“…Of course not, uh,” Rune’s eyes widen, and he blanks on the name. He swallows and clears his throat. “Brother.”

“Veezara.” Babette offers with a grin. She revels in his embarrassed huff. The vampire’s a menace and not to be trifled with.

“Brother, Veezara, I get the point. No harm done.” The thief shifts attention back to Niruin. He’s glad to have his former Thieves Guild member present, because the other two individuals make Rune’s hair stand on its end. “Hey, when is Astrid and Gabriella back? I remember you mentioned something about trying to serenade the dunmer.”

“I have a soft spot for that beautiful goddess, I admit, but she offers no attention in return.” Niruin sips delicately at a glass of wine.

Babette holds a hand over her mouth and laughs.

“What is it?” The bosmer raises a brow.

“Oh, no, _no, _I’ll let you figure it out on your own, Niruin. Just like I’ll figure out my snowberries on my own.” The vampire hums thoughtfully and turns to the Argonian now-seated at her right. “I’ll make Gabriella clean up after Lis if you get me snowberries.”

“In that cold?” The Argonian smiles and shakes his head.

“I don’t mind doing it eventually. Just… not now.” Rune rubs the back of his head.

“Of course! Nobody does! It is a little _snow, _is that so _deadly?_” The vampire huffs and crosses her arms. She looks to the side. “Babies, all of you. Arnbjorn would call you meat bags.”

“We are meat bags, technically,” Rune replies dryly.

“If you _excuse _me, I want to see if Nazir left any more stew in that pot…” Niruin climbs out of his chair, grins, and clambers to a large cooking pot on the side. The pot is closer to a cauldron in size; beautifully-fragrant spices waft through the air where the wood elf strides to. When the elf hums in delight, Rune instinctively shakes his head and sighs.

“He’s going to eat it all. I haven’t finished my first bowl.” The Listener snorts.

“Then eat faster.” Babette raises a brow.

“I’m _trying_,” Rune picks at his half-empty bowl of elk stew. He pauses, a lazily spoonful in hand, and glances at Veezara’s place at the table. “You not gonna eat?”

“Not hungry.” The Argonian pours himself a glass of wine, but it’s a small one.

“Something…” Rune winces. None of the sentences sound like they make sense, but he tries regardless. “…On your mind? Besides food.”

“Thinking,” Veezara says.

“A beautiful thing, indeed! What do you think about? Something _exciting?_” Niruin’s gleefully smooth voice makes Rune want to shove the bosmer’s face in stew, if only to wipe that smile from his lips. He refrains from acting on the urge.

“Two days ago. The contract Arnbjorn and I returned from _together,_” the Argonian pauses and glances at Babette. “Did I not tell you this?”

“Keep talking.” Is the vampire’s response; a scowl follows.

“There was a fight while we wrapped up the contract. Three individuals: a Nord, an Imperial, and a… something. Dunmer, perhaps?” Veezara’s tail curls lazily at the end. The Argonian’s yellow eyes shut. “They attacked us. Cut the Nord up real good. Arnbjorn took off running for some reason. But then—This _Dunmer_—” The subject must carry weight in his mind, because Rune spies how the Argonian peruses different words before settle on. “She acted like she knew me.”

“I mean.” Rune shrugs.

“How romantic. You shoot her hopes down? I know you have a way of getting your _point _across.” Niruin interjects over the Listener and grins ear-to-ear. “Go on, Veezara! We’re all _family _here. Tell us all about how you broke her heart.”

“I would like to hear why this ails you, Brother,” Babette’s smile is terrifyingly innocent, but Rune—and likely everyone else at the table—knows the vampire is anything but innocent. The violent implication of bloodshed makes him shudder.

“I cut her down. Two strikes to the chest, beneath her armor. Dropped like a rock. I felt one of my daggers crack a rib from the force of impact, right of the sternum.” The Argonian continues with the tale. He sips from his humble wine glass and pauses. “She… knew my name.”

“What’s this about names and ladies? Coming from _the_ Last Shadowscale?” The voice is loud and hearty, coming from a Redguard man adorned in the uniform of Falkreath’s guards—minus the helmet. Nazir’s skin is a deep brown and his grin is as keen and observant as his voice is snarky. His throat rumbles in amusement as he strides down the steps to the dining hall and puts a hand on Babette’s head. “Babette, what have I been missing?”

“Welcome home, Brother.” Rune and Babette say in unison. The former grimaces when Babette huffs at him.

“Veezara here found and dispatched a lady dying to see him! Such a shame. We need more women in the Brotherhood. Or perhaps someone without gender, if only to spruce up the disappointing lack of diversity in our ranks.” Babette’s dark eyes gleam with mischief. The vampire shoves Nazir’s hand off her head and turns back to Veezara. “You did kill her, right? You didn’t agree with me.”

“—And that’s a hesitation,” Nazir huffs and puts his hands on his hips when the Argonian doesn’t reply. The man squints at Veezara—the sight looks preposterous given the armor the Redguard wears—and soon smirks. “—That is a _definite _hesitation.”

Veezara’s expression doesn’t change. His composure is solid, even as he lifts his wine glass and takes another sip. When he speaks, the assassin answers in a question of his own: “Does it matter if she died immediately?”

“You didn’t confirm the kill.” Nazir whistles sharply and shakes his head. “She got a nice face or what? You realize death is a gift, right? Maybe mister Listener here ought to teach you a couple things about old ways.”

“Go ask Festus when he’s back from murdering some noble’s bastard son. I don’t know Oblivion about _old _ways.” Rune grimaces.

Babette sits up in her seat and clears her throat. When Niruin begins commenting on how _he _wishes he could run into beautiful ladies and excitement on contracts, the vampire growls loud enough to silence the entire hall. She holds a tiny smile and looks around. _“Thank you. _I wanted to say, Nazir—Since I am truly enjoying pushing Veezara’s buttons here—It doesn’t matter if he confirmed the kill. He always uses poisoned daggers. Shadowscale’s have a way with brewing their toxins, you know.”

“I’m not standing here if you intend to lecture me on the ways of the Black Marsh, Babette. Full offense.” Nazir grunts.

Babette huffs loudly. She crosses her arms. “I am _pointing out_ Veezara here doesn’t need to confirm _every _kill. If he got a hit in that close to the woman’s chest—”

Niruin’s eyebrow wiggle makes Rune snort.

“—There’s no _possible _way for a person to survive without the antidote! It’s too close to major blood vessels and vital organs, not to _mention _how quickly it’d spread through the bloodstream. It’s practically confirmed on its own. Right, Veezara?” Babette raises a brow expectantly and peers at the Argonian.

“_Hesitation!_” Niruin leaps to his feet and jabs a finger at the man. _“He hesitated!”_

“See, now no one can defend you,” Babette’s smile falls into a devious grin. “Because you admitted to sparing her!”

“Cruel,” Rune stares.

“—But efficient, that’s Babette for you.” Nazir chuckles under breath.

Veezara sits upright in his chair. His eyes skim the dining hall and he pours himself another glass of wine. “I gave her the antidote. Only one I had on me.”

“She leave that much an impression on you, huh?” A seat is pulled out. Nazir drags it over near where the Argonian sits and plops in the chair. He rests his hands on his knees and leans forward with a grin. “Go on, tell us all about her. Why is she hanging on your mind? You need some gold to hit up a bunkhouse?”

_“Very_ different from a bunk hall. I’m glad the Thieves Guild didn’t conduct business the same way,” Niruin’s comment makes Rune snort again.

“She was familiar. I never saw her before in my life, but…” Veezara’s grip tightens on his wine glass. “I know her.”

“That’s a contradiction and a half, my Brother. If I were you, I’d take up Brother Nazir on his generous allocation of wealth to go bed a lovely person of the night.” Niruin’s comments are chipper and pleasant to the ear.

Rune wants to vomit at the thought. The idea of any of the Brotherhood being nude is not pleasant, save for _maybe _Arnbjorn. The man’s got muscles to tear down doors and rip through chest plates. He wouldn’t mind having the werewolf’s hands rip through his chest plate, but Astrid being the man’s wife makes the dream wither away. _Fantasies are best kept in the dark. I bet I could make Cicero believe the Night Mother told me that… _

“I’ll pass.” Veezara sets his empty wine glass down and stands. He stretches his arms and pauses. His voice is cool and calm when he asks, “—Are Astrid and Gabriella not back?”

“Why are you surprised? It’s winter; Skyrim’s winter is always a nuisance. All that food stuck indoors!” Babette sighs and shakes her head.

“Our Sisters know the route through the southern pass, rain, snow, or shine. Don’t doubt their abilities.” Nazir’s grin falters and he snorts. “Or I’ll start asking you if—”

“Absolutely not.” The Shadowscale states. He waves off the group and ascends the staircase, trudging away with silent footsteps.

“See that? No hesitation. None at all. That’s how you know she wasn’t _just _a Dunmer.” Niruin shakes his head. “Who wants to play me in cards?”

“I’ll take a gander. You up, Babette? Rune?” Nazir leans back in his chair.

“I’ve been banned from betting at the table for a month.” Rune states sincerely. He shrugs at Nazir’s amused glance. “Babette’s upset I _might_’ve cheated.”

“You did cheat. I haven’t forgotten.” The vampire smiles politely.

“Tch.” Rune grimaces. “I’m taking a Veezara on this one, gonna scope out the rest of the place. Maybe Gabriella and Astrid are back but ignoring us.”

“Gabriella ignore _me? _I am deeply offended, Rune! To think I call you _Brother _as per formal dictations!” Niruin scoffs at the notion. “Go on, run away! Go pray to the Night Mother! Maybe check and make sure that jester’s still alive.”

“Will not do.” Is Rune’s solemn promise.

It isn’t that he minds Cicero—Except he _does _mind the jester. Even if Cicero is the reason he got anywhere in the Brotherhood beyond hypothetical food for Babette—Rune doesn’t believe Festus’ claims of keeping the vampire off him and Niruin for a _second_—something about the Keeper continues to put off the Listener. It may be the way he talks endearingly about the Night Mother, or his over-the-top flamboyancy, or the fact he never seems to wash his _clothes_, or maybe even how Cicero has a tendency of barging in on conversations to declare something asinine or procure a joke not even worthy of the scum in Oblivion. Rune grimaces at the thought. _Maybe all of the above. _

What screeches in his ears is, thankfully, not the boisterously loud voice of the Keeper, but that of Astrid’s shout of, “_Meeting! _Waterfall!”

The Imperial man joins the rest of the Brotherhood—save Cicero, maybe the guy’s off oiling the Night Mother or something—in the sanctuary’s massive waterfall chamber. It’s a peaceful respite from the death and age marking the rest of the sanctuary: the waterfall pours into a lagoon near a high-hanging stained-glass depiction of Sithis’ aspect. The beautiful art piece is embedded into an upper corner of the wall. On the ground, to the left is the forge Rune typically finds Arnbjorn at; the white-haired Nord is absent and instead stands at Astrid’s side. To the right is a series of training mannequins; it’s a common sight to see one of the Dark Brotherhood practicing killing blows on the poor dummies.

What is far, far, _far _from common—to a degree that might make Rune stare in fascinated horror—is the sight of another Thieves Guild member standing with a _little kid_ behind Astrid and Gabriella. The Imperial man’s jaws hang open and he can’t hold back the stunned statement, _“Sahkriimir?”_

They look _nothing _like how Rune remembers them. The man recalls their hair being a gleaming gold, purer than molten metal, and their eyes a shining silver that seemed to fascinate the Thieves Guild’s second head to no degree. Now, the individual stands with dirty-blond hair, crudely misshapen and in need of a proper trim. Their eyes horrify the Listener: he sees the irises a dead gray, and the whites of their eyes little more than the darkest black. Even Babette’s dark vampire eyes offers some light in them; there is nothing pleasant about Sahkriimir’s gaze when they lock with his own. He notes they aren’t as surprised to see him as he is to see them.

“Let me see,” Astrid scans the occupants of the room and counts heads. “…Festus is on contract… Rune, Nazir, Babette, Gabriella, Arnbjorn, myself, Niruin…”

“Is all of the Guild up and joining this faction now?” Rune blurts out before he can stop himself.

Astrid sighs loudly and shakes her head. “Now I have to start over.”

“I’m sorry!” The man exclaims. He grits his teeth and looks beyond Sahkriimir, at the kid at their side. The boy is young and no older than ten, if that even, with hair that’s also in need of a shave and a _chicken _in his arms. Rune’s brow rises. He can’t recall the name, but he knows the kid.

“Where is that jester? I need _everyone _to be here for this announcement.” Astrid’s words contain a note of humor.

For some reason, it makes Rune concerned. He glances at Niruin from the side and finds the bosmer shares in his observation for once. Both turn back to Astrid while Gabriella grumbles and scurries off to find the jester.

The ginger-haired man is positively _beaming _when he comes dancing out of a side corridor. Cicero is as Cicero does: he’s a middle-aged embodiment of merriment and mirth, presented in a black-and-red jester motley that reeks to high heavens. Rune has half the mind to throw the man into the lagoon and makes him take a _bloody bath _when he pauses. Something clicks in his mind and his eyes widen, and not because Cicero zips to the Listener’s side. The Listener ignores the man’s cheery, excessive greetings and peers at Cicero’s light-brown eyes.

_The trip home from Solitude. Kara mentioned… _He’s a fool to have overlooked the memory, but it didn’t dawn on Rune until the jester and Sahkriimir were in the same room just _what _that old conversation referenced. Rune snaps his head to look at Sahkriimir and finds the latter’s form is tense, eyes shut and fists clenched tightly. _Kara saved them all?... Loved them?... And Sahkriimir… didn’t want to see Cicero again. But why?_

“Say hi to our newest recruits,” Astrid’s voice cuts through the air. Even Cicero ceases his babbles, though it doesn’t go unnoticed that the man snorts and complains under breath. Astrid smiles broadly and waves at Sahkriimir and the kid. “This is _Mullokah _and _Sahkriimir.”_

“And Clucky!” The child chirps eagerly.

“We get to keep him? I want to turn him into a vampire, immediately.” Babette declares the claim and bares her fangs.

“Why would you want to make Clucky a vampire—And she’s a _girl,_” Mullokah sputters in disbelief. His eyes widen when the actual meaning processes. “—Please don’t turn me into a vampire! I’m a tiny _dovahkiin! _Not a vampire!”

“Unfortunately, Babette, our benefactor requested he stays vampire-free.” Astrid smiles apologetically. “But maybe you can take up the topic with our other new _recruit. _They’ve been calling themself a Listener the whole way back! Sahkriimir.”

Rune cringes on the inside. He sees how the shift of attention to their form makes them tense. Sahkriimir’s dark eyes open and narrow with resolve, but even resolve isn’t enough to keep the individual from gritting their teeth in embarrassment.

“We have a Listener already.” The words come from Gabriella. She holds a hand over her mouth and smiles. “Rune?”

“Yeah.” Rune mumbles. He raises a hand, and lowers it upon remembering _everyone _in the sanctuary knows who he is. “—I’m the Listener.”

“Cicero thinks the pretender should lose their head—” Rune regrets not grabbing and shoving Cicero into a locked crate, because the jester flits forward with surprising speed and stops just short of Sahkriimir. The latter freezes and Rune curses internally at the sight of color draining from Sahkriimir’s face. Cicero pulls an enchanted ebony dagger from one long motley sleeve and waves it around the shorter individual’s face, “Would the Pretender like to be diced or sliced or _stab, stab, stabbed?_”

“Cicero.” It’s a soft name, pronounced and familiar with a world lost in the syllables.

Rune wonders what in _Oblivion _he’s missed back in Riften, because the defeat in the notoriously hotheaded Dragonborn surprises him. _Unless they aren’t Dragonborn anymore. Unless that’s why they look different. Unless… can that even happen? I need to talk to them in private, Oblivion._

“How does Pretender know Cicero’s name? Cicero would like an answer,” the Keeper hums and circles Sahkriimir. They pull Mullokah closer to them, and Sahkriimir holds their breath until Cicero backs off and shrugs with a loud, “If heads need to roll, there is a jester waiting to make it happen, Astrid! Mistress!”

“They live for now. They are one of us, Keeper, watch your sharps and keep your dagger out where it doesn’t belong,” the blond-haired Nord states curtly. She’s not _upset_ though. For once, Astrid is humored by the words. “But I appreciate your enthusiasm. Why don’t you give these two a tour? I have words to discuss with our _actual _Listener.”

“—But Sahkriimir _is _a Listener. They told me. They won’t lie to me! They made a Blood oath!” The child—Mullokah—frowns and looks up at the leader of the Brotherhood.

“We have our Listener, my dear. He’s right there—His name is Rune, he’s a bit hard-pressed at times but he’s finding his place here. Just like you will.” The Nord smiles politely at the kid.

“Sahkriimir wouldn’t break a Blood vow.” Mullokah reasserts.

“Okay, how in Oblivion _does _this person know of blood vows and the Five Tenets?” Nazir’s question causes Astrid to grimace. The Redguard crosses his arms and narrows eyes at Sahkriimir.

Veezara’s posture stiffens where he stands. Rune frowns at the Argonian but turns back to the two new _recruits _up front.

“I told you. _Especially you, _Rune,” Sahkriimir states quietly. Their eyes hold a darkness in their depths, one that threatens to envelop Rune whole if he stares too long. The man looks away while Sahkriimir raises their voice. “I was once part of the Dark Brotherhood. I once served as its Listener. That was another time—”

“Dear, sweet Cicero would remember a _Listener _from years past!” Cicero’s shout cuts off any motivation Sahkriimir has to speak. “Cicero _knows_ the names of the fallen, oh ho ho! Nothing but dead family! You are _not _one of them!”

Rune considers interjecting himself in the mix—call him wild-eyed, but he believes Sahkriimir _now_ after this Listener nonsense struck him—but he doesn’t have the opportunity. Astrid waves him over and takes him to the Sanctuary’s entrance hall; the leader of the Brotherhood pulls off her gloves and flexes her hands. Her eyes flit to Rune’s face and the Imperial frowns in response, concerned; the Listener begins to grow nervous as time drags on with Cicero’s shouts of uproar and outrage in the background.

“Rune, a word.” Astrid pauses. She pulls a paper from her pocket and waves it around. “I know this has been a period of adjustment for all of us. Me included. But… the Amulet Motierre gave as half-payment upfront… It’s gotten us a _good_ note of credit. That means _money_. Septims. This won’t just bring the Brotherhood glory—It’s going to make all of us _rich._”

“Rich is good!” Rune notes sharply. He crosses his arms. “Is there a catch to this, or…?”

“No! There’s _none!_ That’s the brilliant part about it!” The woman grins ear-to-ear. The gleam in her eyes is undeniably greedy. “We’ll hold off on telling the others—But this is good, _delicious _news. This is the start of a change for our Sanctuary. We have… Well, we have that mad man, we got this contract, and we have _you, _and this isn’t how any of this was supposed to occur—It’s not how _I _would have planned it—But it’s real, it’s happening! The Dark Brotherhood is going to kill the Emperor bit-by-bit.”

He lets an audible sigh of relief escape him at the realization the man isn’t in trouble. Rune rubs his nose and averts his gaze. “I’m _really _glad to hear that.”

“Remember,” and _there _it is, the drop in tone and razor-sharp pitch that threatens to wring Rune’s neck if he so much breathes the wrong way. The man stiffens and nods at Astrid to continue. She parts her lips and states, “I know this is going _beautifully. _But I’m the leader of this sanctuary. You _are _the Listener—But we don’t use all the _old _ways here. This sanctuary’s lived where others have fallen because of _my _methods. I come first. Top of the chain.”

_You fear someone usurping you? Who’s a big enough fool to try? This whole sanctuary backs you! _Rune yells in his mouth. He frowns and nods nonetheless. “My loyalty’s yours.”

“Good.” Astrid’s eyes narrow. She looks around the room and shifts to move closer to the Listener, soon standing a foot from him and looking him up and down. “I hope it stays that way. You’re… doing good here,” her voice betrays a hint of softness, one that makes Rune feel incredibly awkward. “I hope it continues.”

“I’m doing my best, for the Brotherhood.” The Listener blurts out.

He leaves the second he has the chance. He doesn’t want to dilly-dally on the increasing propositions carried in Astrid’s words. He doesn’t enjoy the thought of diddling the woman, far from it; his eyes fancy _men _and Astrid is a conventionally-attractive woman.

Not to mention the drama it would cause! As if Niruin’s rants and raves weren’t bad enough! Like the Dark Brotherhood didn’t give its members enough shit! Arnbjorn would have his throat, and if the rumors of Delvin Mallory hitching up with Astrid are true, then Delvin would have his _corpse_ and cut it up into fish food! Rune has _no _desire for any of that. He doesn’t desire being _Listener _half the time, much less finessing _Astrid _of all people.

_No, no, and no. No. I wonder if I could convince Niruin to pose as my love. …No, nope, nevermind that, can’t trust that bosmer far as I can throw him. Even if I can throw him far… _The man grimaces when he departs, trudging down a set of stairs to the waterfall chamber. Most other members are gone, having returned to their own duties or mingling back in the dining hall or bunk hall. Rune grimaces and strides up to the waterfall; his arms linger at his sides and he stares at the cool pools of water.

“…I bet Kara would get a kick outta this place. I wonder if she’s also…” His words trail off at the sight of a dark, scaly head popping out of the lagoon. Rune stares like a deer in a hunters crosshairs. His body stills and his eyes lock unto Veezara’s ample yellow ones while the Argonian treads water.

“Brother.” The Argonian states courteously.

“Did you hear that?” Rune mutters, eyes twitching.

“Hear what?” Veezara rests his arms on the edge of the lagoon. It keeps just his arms, shoulders, and head above water while the rest of his body floats. “Does something trouble you, Brother?”

“Hey—Don’t get started on _that._ I didn’t mean for it to turn out a joke! I dish shit out but it’s _quality_, not quantity.” The Listener grunts loudly. He squints. “Why’re you in the pool?”

“Thinking,” Is the Shadowscale’s answer. Veezara’s line of sight shifts to the side. “…Who is Kara?”

“Eavesdropping might get your chest caved in in Riften,” Rune warns loudly. He shakes his head and sighs. “She’s a friend. A Dunmer. Thief. Kind of… questionable at times. She’s the one who went off on Sahkriimir this one time while we were traveling… Can’t say I’ve ever seen her that pissed before.” As he talks, his eyes dim. Rune absentmindedly pulls his hood down and runs a hand through his hair. He too needs a trim.

“…Kara.” Veezara shuts his eyes. The name’s spoken softly.

“Odd name for a Dunmer, right? Who names a dark elf _Kara?_” Rune snorts. He stiffens when the Argonian doesn’t reply, and looks around the chamber. A thought crosses his mind; he kneels near Veezara and squints at the man. “…You hesitated. That means something.”

“Perhaps it does.” Veezara shrugs lazily. “Perhaps I am taking a nap.”

“If you got something on your mind, you should talk about it. Distractions are a bad thing,” Rune states quietly. He recalls a conversation months ago, during the trip to Solitude. “—Funny, kind of. A friend of mine once told me distractions are really bad for contracts. I know we aren’t on a contract right _now_, but it applies. I think.” He about jumps into the lagoon at the sound of Veezara _hauling _himself out of the water and staring with wide, shocked eyes. He’s never seen the Argonian’s composure break and he gawks at the sight.

“Who,” Veezara repeats. “Who told you that? _Who?_”

“…Kara did.” Rune frowns. “Funny how… we keep coming back to her.”

“Where did she hear it?”

Rune swallows. He’s not easily dissuaded—maybe he is—but _this _particular conversation leaves his stomach churning uncomfortably. He steps back. “—That—I don’t know. Kara just said a _friend _of hers told her. Specifically—She said—Someone close to her. I mean… I… I didn’t think she meant Dark Brotherhood! But if Sahkriimir wasn’t ever part of this place, then… Then I doubt Kara was, either. You don’t know her?” He throws the last question out with reluctance. He isn’t sure _what _he’s trying to figure out, but he feels a pang of guilt at the thought of not delving further into the matter.

He’s felt a lot of guilt lately.

“…Distractions during contracts kill.” Veezara’s voice falls. He holds a hand to his forehead and looks away. His eyes betray the emotions flickering in his head: there’s too many for Rune to catch up on, but the mess can be witnessed in eyes and in words when the man speaks. “It’s… taught to Shadowscales. Or—It was. I am the last of my order, Brother. There is no one to teach, no Saxhleel born under the signs of Shadow.”

“Maybe you’re overthinking it.” Rune offers. He frowns and inches backward, _just _in case Veezara tries to pull anything on him. “It’s a common sentiment—”

“No. No, I’m not. Something is not right about this. I would be a fool not to trust my intuition, Brother.” The Shadowscale shuts his eyes and breathes slowly. “Where do I find her?”

“I—I don’t know?” The Listener’s brows rise. He takes a step back. “Probably—Riften? Maybe? Try there—The Ragged Flagon—Ask Brynjolf to get her! I’m sure she’ll—”

“Brynjolf.”

_Divines, _if his words prompt Veezara to stab him then and there, Rune prays someone gives him a decent burial. Cicero’s fixation with the Listener would give reason to bury him appropriately, right? _He’s not that much of a mad man in the head. He’ll give me my last rites in death. Make me a little gravestone… _

“That’s—That’s what the Imperial said—When she and her dunmer friend were fighting me—” Veezara’s form tenses.

Rune snaps, “_You almost killed Brynjolf and Kara?_”

“I may have, yes.” The Shadowscale states calmly.

“You almost killed Brynjolf and Kara! What’s the matter with you?! Aside from being an assassin trained from whenever you started this business!” Rune runs hands through his hair. “By Divines, Talos, Mara, all the Nine, help me—All I want is hot men and money! Everything’s going wrong! Kara stole my rock!...” He begins to rant and ramble incessantly. It isn’t until Veezara clears his throat that Rune freezes and shuts up. “Sorry. Brother. I know I am a member of the Dark Brotherhood _now_ but I still care about my fellow thieves in Riften. Did you kill them all?”

“—No. Injured the man—Brynjolf?—And left _Kara _bleeding out on the ground in the snow. I did give her the only antidote I had on me. Perhaps…” The Argonian turns away. “…She lived.”

“I hope she did!” Rune blurts aloud. “She’s going to be _pissed _at you. For hurting Brynjolf and stabbing her! I’m surprised she didn’t shout you to Oblivion! She’s Dragonborn, y’know! She can shout men into submission!”

“Dragonborn?” Veezara repeats the word slowly. He nods. “—I’ll remember that.”

“Good. Now. I’m going. Away. Out of this room,” the Imperial doesn’t give Veezara a chance to prolong the _uncomfortable _conversation. He turns and zips to one staircase crawling deeper into the Sanctuary. He doesn’t stop until he narrowly avoids careening into one ten-year-old-kid rounding a corner. Rune nimbly sidesteps the kid and huffs loudly. “Watch it!”

“Sorry!” Mullokah calls back apologetically, chasing after a trail of feathers. “I gotta catch Clucky! Gabriella said if she poops anywhere she’ll turn her to stew!”

“Listener! Dear Cicero was dying to see you!” The jester’s voice is a screech of nails on glass and though Rune doesn’t _personally _have anything against the man, he still strains not to recoil when Cicero comes bounding to his side. “Is the tall, contemplative Listener in need of assistance? Cicero has shown _Mullokah _and _Pretender _the extent of Falkreath Sanctuary, save for our unholy matron’s hall. Would you like to join us?”

“Yes, actually.” Rune regrets the words immediately, because the dance Cicero pulls him into is stiff and awkward. He doesn’t move along, he waits for Cicero to give up and step away. The man crosses his arms at Cicero and squints. “Pretender?”

“The Pretend Listener, of course, of course.” Cicero gestures dramatically at Sahkriimir.

Rune’s eyes lock on them immediately. He inhales a breath and brushes past Sahkriimir and Cicero alike, heading in the direction of the Night Mother’s sanctuary. “Let’s go have a look around, Sahkriimir. Since you’re here now.”

_You look miserable. _Rune keeps the thought to himself. _Defeated? What in Oblivion’s gone on? _

But he doesn’t ask, not yet. He keeps the words in the back of his mind as he enters the sanctuary containing the Night Mother’s coffin. The room is well-lit and surprisingly clean; Cicero’s done an exceptional job of dusting the room, wiping down surfaces, and arranging preservative oils and herbs in a neat row across several shelves. The sarcophagus itself is a spectacular sheen of clean metal and beautiful designs carved into obsidian clasps. Rune exhales sharply as the pull of an ethereal entity, a comforting presence, draws him straight to the casket. He bows his head and turns to face Cicero and Sahkriimir, only to find Sahkriimir staring with big, dark eyes at the casket.

“Night Mother.” They whisper softly, too quietly for a _Dragonborn_, and hesitantly take a step closer. Their eyes water and Rune stares in disbelief at tears forming. Sahkriimir’s entire body is tense, hands shaking, but they utter a soft. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I pledged myself to you when my soul belonged to another.”

No words come, and perhaps none should, because Cicero’s gawking is ridiculous and the Night Mother speaking to either of them could send the man into a heart attack. Rune crosses his arms and eyes Sahkriimir carefully; he knows their shouts can hit hard and cross elements. “Not too close, Sahkriimir.”

But it is as if the words don’t reach their ears. Rune’s brows furrow. The longer he watches, the more the world seems to lack in sense. The Sahkriimir he knows doesn’t cry in front of others, or cry at all. The Sahkriimir he knows is a vicious, violent beast that is said to have cut down Grelod the Kind and feasted on her. The Sahkriimir he knows… Perhaps he doesn’t know them _that _well, but he knows enough to deduce they aren’t what he expects. At least—Not anymore. Rune looks over his shoulder and glances from Cicero to the door.

The Keeper’s got the sense to offer a semblance of privacy when asked for it. Cicero’s not smiles about it, but he leaves the two alone in the sanctuary and shuts the door behind him. Rune has the impression he is just outside the door, standing guard and hoping for an order to _stab, stab, stab _someone.

“I need to know what’s going on.” Rune states quietly.

The Dragonborn looks at the ground.

“I’m _Listener. _That means something, right? I know—Kara once said—You were involved with the Brotherhood. She was, too. Maybe that’s a lie. Maybe not. But if it’s not—I need you to obey me, as Listener. That’s one of the Tenets? I think?”

“Tenet Three,” It’s recited plain-as-day, as if Sahkriimir read it from a book. “Never disobey an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis, Rune.”

“You remember my name.” Rune blinks.

“You would do well to memorize them. This sanctuary is bound for a fiery end.” Sahkriimir whispers softy and wipes their eyes. “The Tenets will show you who your allies are. Who will watch you bleed.”

“I need you to tell me what in Oblivion’s gone on, first! I’ve been a bit _lost, _if you haven’t noticed—I’m giving you an order as _Listener._”

“Mercer Frey abandoned your guild. Took me to Ansilvund,” the individual slowly lifts a slim hand to their neck and points. “Cut my soul from the sky. Stole my _voice_. That is truth, Li—Listener.”

Rune swallows. _Okay. That… Oblivion. They’re… Not Dragonborn. I can handle this._

“Kara, Vex, Brynjolf—What are they doing? When you last saw them.” The man squints. He can’t show his unease at their replies.

“They are on a headhunt for the former guild master.” Sahkriimir states. “They planned to explore a location called the Twilight Sepulcher. I… don’t know if you’ve crossed paths with them or not. Or if any of the Brotherhood has. Mullokah and I were taken the second night after they left. It’s been over a week.”

_Let's not... mention Veezara's and Arnbjorn's incident. _Rune flinches. “Why are you and the kid here?”

“I owe the Brotherhood a blood debt. I killed Grelod the Kind and took a life marked for the Void.” Sahkriimir grits their teeth. They speak with shame.

“But you said you were once Listener.” The Listener points out.

“—I _was,_” and the former Dragonborn’s eyes well with tears again. They meet Rune’s line of sight and hold it, allowing the man to see how grief-stricken and shaken they are. “I was! I once heard her! I pledged my soul to the unholy matron! To Sithis himself! She gave me my name! _Sah-Krii-Mir_!”

_Phantom. Kill. Allegiance. _The thought surfaces in Rune’s mind of its own accord. He shudders and grimaces. The entire conversation gives him a headache. “But you aren’t… now? Otherwise… Otherwise you couldn’t hold a blood debt. A member of the Dark Brotherhood can’t hold a blood debt unless they kill… Uh…” He blanks on the details and rubs the back of his head.

“Unless they kill one whose contract specifies a particular assassin sending them to the Void.” Sahkriimir provides the answers he needs.

Rune stares. “You shouldn’t know that.”

“I wish I didn’t.” It’s a lie, and Rune and them both know it, and Rune _knows _they’re aware of the lie in their teeth, because it’s plain-as-day Sahkriimir wants nothing more than to hear the voice of the unholy matron. It’s a tangible, desperate decree imprinted in the shameful tears streaking down their face.

“Why aren’t you Listener now? Why am _I _Listener, Sahkriimir?” The Listener lowers his arms back to his sides.

“—Because my soul belongs to Lord Sheogorath.” Sahkriimir confesses with an honesty Rune’s grown to despise. “I am the Champion of the Prince of Madness. I cannot be Listener anymore. No matter how much I want it.”

“I’m going to need mead after this,” Rune curses aloud under breath. “If I wasn’t Listener—I wouldn’t believe this. Part of me doesn’t want to believe it and I _am _Listener. I… What do we do?” He keeps the question open-ended, because he doesn’t have an answer and he doesn’t want to give an order to a former Listener.

Sahkriimir exhales softly. “I’m not Listener—”

“But you were—I’m making that count for something, c’mon,” Rune grits his teeth. The Imperial jabs a finger at them. “I know you don’t want Astrid to have your head on a pike. I _don’t _have much influence in that department, but I can try to keep her from chucking you to wolves outside.”

“I,” they hesitate. They wipe their eyes. “—Thank you.”

“I’m never gonna be used to hearing that.” Rune mumbles under breath.

“Mullokah.” Is the next thing Sahkriimir says, full of hesitation. They lack as much trust as he does that moment.

Ironically, Rune finds comfort in knowing the two share _something _in common.

“What of the kid?” The Listener squints.

“He—Astrid took him under orders of someone else. An associate?” Sahkriimir holds their head in their hands. “He’s _Dragonborn, _Rune. He’s a child. I… He shouldn’t be here. Not until he’s old enough to know the impact of this decision.”

“Well, try to look at it another way: if he’s here, Astrid isn’t trying to kill him. Any associates? Or—Whomever—Isn’t trying to kill him. We can keep an eye on him here.” Rune attempts to be helpful. He’s silently pleased it works; his posture relaxes at the sight of Sahkriimir’s stiff nod. “—I have no idea who backs Astrid.”

“It isn’t the Night Mother.” Sahkriimir states curtly. They swallow and clamp a hand over their mouth, then look around the room wildly. “—It isn’t—She doesn’t—”

“I’m not ratting you out, and I know _Cicero _won’t either.” Rune states the last few words loudly. He grimaces at the sound of footsteps scampering away outside the door. If it weren’t for the faint ringing of the bells attached to the man’s cap, Rune might have worried someone else was eavesdropping on the duo. He sighs. “…I’ll… We’ll need to work together. Communicate, somehow. We’ll figure it out as we go. Thieves Guild, Brotherhood, doesn’t matter where we’re at—We’re both clever people, right? Otherwise we wouldn’t be where we are now.”

“I would.” Sahkriimir’s retort is dry and much, much more normal to hear coming from them. “This is a cycle of punishment. I am in the process of being punished by my Lord.”

Rune’s amused half-smile makes them squint at him. He shrugs. “Okay, that’s… Oblivion. Yeah.” His mind blanks on what else to say.

“If you can get me space away from the spellcasters of the Brotherhood—I can summon a Dremora. He may be able to relay messages to Kara, though I don’t know the rate of which he does it.” Sahkriimir states quietly.

“I take it no one knows you left? You and Mullokah?” Rune asks.

_“Delvin Mallory_ sold information on my location to Astrid, or… To the woman’s _associate._ He cannot be trusted. Not now. As for others—Brynjolf, Kara, Vex, those three are hunting Mercer Frey. I do not know _when _they may notice Mullokah’s and I’s absence, much less the reason behind it. I doubt anyone else cares enough of me to pay attention.”

“Harsh.” Rune frowns. 

“Truth.” Sahkriimir counters. “Hence the… Dremora idea.”

“I can’t promise anything. But we’ll try what we can and see where it goes,” the Listener nods to his own words. He pauses ad glances away. “So, ignore any shit feelings this topic brings—But I need to know about… You. And… Cicero. I know he is the Keeper. You were once Listener? Somehow?” Rune presses on with the questions in spite of Sahkriimir’s visible wince. “I need to know. As Listener. And as… an ally, I s’pose.”

“He was my dancing partner,” is the individual’s reply. Sahkriimir steps forward to the taller man and meets Rune’s gaze. The latter stares in confusion until Sahkriimir takes one of Rune’s hands and puts it on their shoulder. Rune watches them lace his other hand in theirs, and their free hand move to his waist.

With perhaps too much, or too little, or just the _right _amount of surprise, Rune is pulled into the very same dance Cicero's attempted to drag him into in the past. The man finds his steps shoddy and out of place, but Sahkriimir’s grip is tight and the individual slowly leads him around and around the sanctuary while the Night Mother’s coffin watches from behind. Rune’s mouth hangs open and the Listener is left utterly speechless when Sahkriimir ends the pseudo-waltz and releases him. Their gaze drifts away.

“…and my fool.” Sahkriimir adds to their previous sentence. “But that was a universe ago.”

“Why can’t you show him the steps?” Rune can’t tear his eyes away. He feels oddly determined now, like his resolve is to try and _fix _things in the former Dragonborn’s existence in spite the latter’s hostility toward him in the past.

“He is not my fool in this life. He is _a _fool,” there’s a soft note of warmth, a hint at the feelings lingering on. Sahkriimir shakes their head. “…Besides. I would not partake in such acts behind Brynjolf’s back. I do not believe he and I breached that topic in discussion.”

“Oblivion, Brynjolf actually hooked up with a dragon—” Rune shuts up when Sahkriimir’s stern glare falls on him. He holds his hands up. “Hey—I’m _Listener—_Sometimes things slip out—And we haven’t seen each other in _months_, what are you expecting? Me to roll over and accept news like this without pause? Get your head on right, Sahkriimir."

“Easier said than done, Listener.” The reply comes back dry.

“Well—I’m done talking with you. You’ve seen the Night Mother.” Rune grunts and crosses his arms again. He narrows his gaze. “So—We’ve spoken. We’re on better terms. And… You don’t have my rock, do you? Kara didn’t drop it? Offhand? Maybe? Before she left? She better not lost it—"

“Your _what?”_ Sahkriimir cocks a brow at the man.

The Imperial sighs and walks to the door. “Forget I said shit.”


	32. darkness rises when silence dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the dark brotherhood is a very different place for sahkriimir the second time around.

“Again.” The word is issued as a _command _by the tall dunmer woman as she looks on at the two with crossed arms and an amused smile. Gabriella’s a harsh teacher; she has both child and adult alike work effortlessly ironing out every detail of the form she’s drilled into their heads.

Kara never mentioned learning to fight would be _hard, _that it would take _time. _For so long, Sahkriimir’s relied on raw draconic strength to overwhelm opponents. Claws, nails, teeth, beak, shred, rip, tear, and chomp, and when things call for it: _fire, frost, leech _and drain of life. Sahkriimir’s memories portray and embody the tooth-and-nails bloodlust that lurches inside their soul, predating back to when they first hatched. Even as a _dov woman _in Kara’s past body, they used _that_ body’s natural attributes in favor of proper weapons. The only time they ever picked up a blade was to feed a beautiful dagger fresh blood!

Learning how to use weapons—actual weapons, not merely knives or daggers or arrowheads—is a pain. Close-quarter combat isn’t much better, though Sahkriimir reluctantly rolls with it out of respect for how different martial forms use multiple parts of the body to express force. That, and they can’t say no. Though Rune expressed offering help in the past, his words held no meaning once Astrid shipped him and Veezara off to Solitude for a wedding. Astrid’s rule is iron-clad and suggestions are orders, orders are absolute, and Sahkriimir is stuck with menial labor when Astrid doesn’t force them to drop what they’re doing and help encourage Mullokah’s training.

They try to think positive. They are _learning _how to fight. They are learning how to counter enemies without the connection of the sky tethering them to an innate, natural strength. They are learning to have _use. _

“—Not right,” Gabriella reviews the two’s strikes at training mannequins and grimaces. The dunmer sighs and shakes her head. “Do I need to keep pushing you guys through this? Is it that hard?”

“Mullokah needs a lighter sword.” Sahkriimir grunts. They lower their shortsword and use a hand to wipe sweat from their brow. They glance at the child, equally out of breath as they are, and sigh. “—Is it not appropriate for him to wield a better-sized weapon? One fitting his stature?”

“Yes, it is, but we don’t always have the privilege of working with weapons we want to use. You’re assassins now. You use the tools you have in hand, or you improvise, or you _die_.”

“That’s not encouraging.” Sahkriimir frowns. They catch sight of Mullokah wheezing and move to catch him before he drops to his knees. “—Mul! Mul, breathe—Gabriella, give the child a break. Water. He isn’t an infinite fountain of energy.”

“If you don’t practice exerting yourself, you won’t have the strength to do so in an emergency,” Is the dunmer’s solemn response.

Sahkriimir grits their teeth. They help Mullokah stand. The boy manages a flimsy, tired smile. “I’m okay. See? I have all my teeth!”

“You’re missing one of them,” is their observation. “Mullokah.”

“It’ll grow in eventually!” The boy cries in protest. He picks up his shortsword and huffs. “I’ll have big teeth. Strong teeth. Teeth that can,” the child warily waves the sword around. Sahkriimir narrowly steps to the side out of one feeble swing. Mullokah sighs. “Can bite mountains. Stuff like that. Can I nap? Like Clucky now? _Please?_”

“It is not my decision.” Sahkriimir confesses.

“Why not? You were Listener, right?” Mullokah speaks as the two start into the routine once more.

Sahkriimir despises shortswords. Their aim is good, but the weight of the weapon makes them grimace. “—Once, little Dragonborn! Not now!”

“We have a Listener—We went over this, hey,” Gabriella puts a hand on her hip and squints. Her eyes are dark but shining in excitement at watching swords hit mannequins. “Keep your head up, assassins. I’ll call you babies if you start acting like 'em.”

“My name’s—” Mullokah grumbles loudly and beats the shortsword against the mannequin. “—_Mullokah! _Strength,” he takes a step back. “Sky!” He lifts the sword up, then pauses. “—What’s the last word mean, Sahkriimir?”

“Hunter, or slayer. Or warrior, in some variations.” Sahkriimir bites their lip. They hope they don’t lie unintentionally; it’s hard to remember any meaning of dragon tongue when most of the knowledge was torn from their soul by Mercer Frey.

“Gabriella!” Astrid emerges from the staircase that lowers into the waterfall chamber the trio practices in. The blond-haired Nord strides down the stairs and smiles broadly at all three individuals. “Do you have a moment? I need to brief you on something. Oh, Sahkriimir,” the woman glances from Sahkriimir to Mullokah. “And our newest assassin-to-be! It’s good to see both of you training.”

“Take that break,” Gabriella pulls the hood of our shrouded armor up. Her uniform is less form-fitting and baggier, an older spin on the modern-day uniform of the Dark Brotherhood. It hides the dunmer’s dark gray skin and mischief-filled eyes as Gabriella trots to Astrid and follows her up the stairs to the sanctuary’s entrance hall.

“We should find you a dagger,” Sahkriimir states quietly when the two are left alone. They smile faintly at the sight of Mullokah picking Clucky up and giving her a big hug. “She’s a good friend for you.”

“Clucky’s lucky! She doesn’t got to practice this much!” The youth grumbles and scratches the chicken’s neck.

“Clucky isn’t a tiny Dragonborn.” Sahkriimir rubs their arms and grimaces. Their body is sore head-to-toe. They don’t know the exact length of time they’ve been in the Brotherhood, but it’s been at least two weeks. Being run around nonstop by Astrid, sweeping, dusting, and washing, is strenuous, but at least they feel muscle starting to build from their efforts.

“I’m getting me and Clucky some water!” Mullokah calls over shoulder as he trots away, deeper into the sanctuary with his chicken lazily walking after him.

_Water’s not a bad idea. _They frown and make to follow the kid only to stop after a few steps. They hear a hushed voice go back and forth with himself; they don’t have to see through walls to piece together where its coming from and _who _it is coming from. Their eyes dim. _Cicero… _

In the short time they’ve been part of the sanctuary, the jester has called them _Pretender _no less than thirty-seven times. He slips in the quips, the words, the phrases, whether calling it to their face or dressing it up in fancier baggage. Granted, Rune was right when he said Cicero won’t sell them out—they don’t _think _the jester’s said a word of anything to Astrid yet—but the pain that comes from seeing the man view them with such _disdain_ hurts. Yet, in its own twisted fashion, it helps them remember the fool is not _their _fool. It helps them move on, or they pretend it does.

_Maybe I am a Pretender. _Sahkriimir’s eyes shift.

They spend the next day away from Mullokah, lost in the mess of dirty, crust-covered dishes and filth of the dining hall. Sahkriimir’s work ethic is sub-par but they do it all out of a spited need to prove to Astrid they have value. The animosity fuels their motivation to stay alive; it reminds them they are doing this not only for them, but for Mullokah, and by extensive—for Brynjolf, for they know he would do the same for the child.

On day sixteen, they get the honor of scrubbing the pen of Babette’s pet spider, Lis. In another universe, the spider belonged to Gabriella, but now the short vampire cares for it and it produces an enormous quantity of filth in its tiny pen.

“If you hurt it, I’ll hurt you a hundred times over.” Babette warns sharply.

Sahkriimir grimaces and spends most of the day avoiding stepping on tiny spider legs.

Day seventeen, they find the sanctuary quiet. Festus Krex, an elderly wizard with a sullen face and wild smile, is out on contract and with him is Gabriella. Astrid has Mullokah busy reviewing different kinds of blades. Astrid’s husband, Arnbjorn, is a mess of a white-haired Nord with rippling muscles and a look that could kill them on the spot; he growls and points to his forge when they ask him where everyone is. “Tools need to be wiped down, shrimp.”

On day eighteen—They spend it cleaning. Astrid has Mullokah reading books on poisons and toxins in the entrance hall, but their work takes them to the back of the sanctuary. Deep in its depths, they spend hours folding clean sheets and blankets for the bunk hall, washing dirty linens, and pouring over old junk to burn. The work takes them through old rooms including some partially caved in. They find a damaged plaque with dust covering the decree of Five Tenets beneath a large chunk of fallen wall. Their eyes dim and their chest aches as they meticulously pull the stone off and hold up the plaque. They rub the dust free of the cracked wood frame and dutiful, embroidered linen.

“…to invoke the wrath of Sithis.” They can’t make out most words, too many letters gone and threads mottled from years gone past. Sahkriimir holds it to their chest and sighs. “Give me strength to not give into the madness, unholy matron, father of dread…”

They hear humming in the background. It wafts softly through the dark rooms of the Sanctuary’s depths. Sahkriimir frowns and straightens upright. They lower the plaque of Tenets to their side and give the room one last glance before slowly creeping forward. When they reach a hall branching left and right, they take the side that wraps up a staircase carved from the wall. At the top, they hear it clearly: the soft, tell-tale voice of a man in motley. He hums a tune they know too well, because he once taught it to _them_, and they have never forgotten it.

At the door of the Night Mother’s sanctuary, they inhale silently and listen. The jester sounds so peaceful; it kills them to know he can be like _this _yet be aggravated and provoked into snapping at others so easily. If they had a say in the matter, they would revert to the Brotherhood’s original ways. _The Old Ways _would provide consistency, stability, and a place of refuge for members of the Brotherhood. The Dark Hand could be reformed, Speakers chosen, and a Listener…

_No, Sahkriimir. Do not let fantasies into your head. _They grit their teeth. Their mind hurts. _You aren’t… Listener. This is nothing like the situation with Kara becoming Dragonborn again. Listener is chosen by the Night Mother. Dragonborn is innate. You were not chosen._

For a moment, they stare at the door. They wonder if the risk is worth the potential reward. They want to enter, to confront Cicero, to see the Night Mother again and beg for forgiveness at their deception and deceit, but they know better. Their eyes stare with longing. Their grip on the plaque of Tenets tightens until their gloved hand digs into the fabric.

The door to the sanctuary opens suddenly. Sahkriimir’s eyes widen and their breath catches in their throat as they stare up at the Keeper. His hazel eyes are bright and full of surprise before the man registers who it is and any joy dies from the stare; Sahkriimir feels a familiar stab of pain at the glare pointed at them.

“_Pretender, _the pretend Listener, has come here to _pretend _again?” The jester huffs. “Cicero will not let Pretender pretend! Not while Cicero is Keeper!”

“No.” Sahkriimir states flatly. They look away. “…I found a plaque of the Five Tenets. I thought… It should be hung somewhere. Keeper.”

“Ha, surely you’re pulling the Keeper’s leg?” It’s not humor but skepticism laced in the words. Cicero jabs beyond them and they glance back to stare at another plaque of Five Tenets, hanging proudly for all to see. “Pretender needs to think of a better excuse! Cicero is not a man easily tricked! Cicero has tricks of his own, ho, ho oh!”

“That one needs dusting,” Sahkriimir frowns. “Does no one here clean?”

“Cicero cleans! Cicero is very good at cleaning, keeping—” The jester rattles off a list of duties related to his role. He’s every bit the devoted man they remember, if not more so when it comes to things related to the Night Mother. “—The only thing Cicero is _not _good at is finding oil! Oil, oil, oils! Old Nazir won’t let poor Cicero anywhere _near _the cooking oils—Not even for poor Mother, no, no, no! It won’t do, it won’t do! At this rate poor Cicero will brave the cold and go sprawling through _mud _looking for—"

“Mudcrab chitin.” They speak the words before they can think through the sentence. Sahkriimir’s eyes widen and they clamp their free hand over their mouth.

“…Yes,” the Keeper’s gaze becomes sharp and astute. His eyes peer into theirs. “…Mudcrab chitin. But you did not know what Cicero was—”

_You used to talk about it all the time, you fool! Fool! My fool! _Sahkriimir’s mind screams. They lower their hand. “…Not much goes through the mud in Skyrim besides crab. Crabs. You mentioned cooking. My mind went there.”

“—Cicero is an _Imperial _and even Cicero knows mudcrab chitin has no place in the kitchen.”

“I meant to say crab legs.” Sahkriimir clenches their eyes shut. If they don’t look, then he can’t tell how big a mess they feel.

But when they open their eyes, he hasn’t budged an inch from the door. His eyes are constantly peering at them with a scrutiny they despise. Words hang on his lips but he keeps the thoughts to himself; the assassin he was and is and continues to be shows great restraint not blurting everything the jester side of him yearns to screech. Sahkriimir keeps their gaze to the side, the floor, anywhere but the enticing irises. The ginger-haired man is ridiculously eye-pulling and the very fact _this _Cicero of _this _universe can still draw their gaze like that is…

“…Cicero thinks Pretender is very silly,” The jester comments.

Their eyes water. His words strike a nerve, one they wish wasn’t so raw and sore, because the reminder comes crashing back to the ground like their soul did from the sky. They mumble a feeble apology, shove the damaged plaque of Tenets at him, and scurry away. When they find a lonely corner of the dark, dank rooms in the depths of the sanctuary, they finally cry.

At the end of what they _think _is a third week, Rune and Veezara return. Sahkriimir watches Astrid whisk the two away to debrief them while Gabriella and Babette go back-and-forth over who gets to do what with Mullokah that day. The youth looks from one assassin to the next in utter fascination to do _anything _Dark Brotherhood related, even if Gabriella might be the one training him and Clucky. They aren’t given the same privilege; their job for the day involves cleaning the dining hall with a ruthlessness. They work in the background while the actual assassins of the Dark Brotherhood mingle in the dining hall. Festus Krex makes a point of thanking them for keeping the place clean, at which they grunt in acknowledgement.

But they don’t regret going to the Brotherhood with Mullokah. They don’t regret being turned into a laborer by Astrid. It is part of the game! They are playing the game! They have played longer games with Thalmor, and they won even when Ondolemar thought their cause was lost. They _will _succeed, even if it hurts, and it hurts, and it aches, and wears, and drains on them. Their exhaustion is the enemy and they can overexert themself as much as necessary to ensure Mullokah remains under watch and care.

They think it’s day twenty-two when Astrid takes them aside. The woman looks gleeful at their expression when she declares, “—You’re sparring Cicero today.”

“I can’t.” Sahkriimir sputters, face drained of color.

“You can, and you _will_, and you will spar him as many times necessary for you to learn how to fight like an actual assassin, _Listener,_” the title is spoken mockingly. It makes Sahkriimir want to strangle the woman, but they know she outmatches them. Astrid smiles and pats Sahkriimir’s arm. “You complained to Gabriella about shortswords. She _suggested _I have you learn how to use daggers. Veezara and Rune are prepping to go on a new assignment, and I’m not teaching you, so our dear Keeper will.”

_Another new contract for the Listener? _Sahkriimir frowns but nods at the words.

“Cicero’ll find you by the mannequins when he’s ready. If he cuts too deep, yell for help—Babette will be around.” Astrid calls over shoulder as she walks off.

Sahkriimir sits, and Sahkriimir waits, and though assassins come and go frequently, they do not see Cicero until it feels like very _late. _They don’t know if it is light or dark outside, but they know many individuals in the sanctuary sleep by the time the jester finally drags himself out and down a staircase into the waterfall chamber. He wears the same black-and-red motley, and his cap has tiny, swinging gold bells that don’t make a single sound with his approach. He isn’t grinning, there’s no twinkle in his eyes, and he grimaces visibly at the sight of Sahkriimir.

“Cicero does not get a challenge here! Not a single one! Not one, one, one!” The man stomps a foot and huffs as he crosses to Sahkriimir. “You aren’t even ready! What kind of foolish display is _this?_”

They stand, brush their leggings off, and look at him. “I’m ready, Keeper.”

“You are not. Not at all. No, no, no.” The jester crosses his arms. “Cicero wants to stab, stab, stab, and dance, dance, dance, and _laugh, laugh, laugh, _and Pretender doesn’t do any of those things! Not one, not one, not one at all!”

“I can—” Sahkriimir pauses and winces. “—Dance.”

They can, sort of.

“Dear, sweet Cicero does not believe the silly Pretender for a second. Not _one_.” The man snorts and looks away. “Cicero will not fight the Pretender. Pretender will die and Cicero will get in trouble with the Night Mother and Dread Father and maybe also Astrid, the mistress.”

“I’m not made of glass,” now they begin to grow irritated. Their eyes narrow on the jester, the fool, and they inhale deeply. “If you cut me, I won’t scream.”

They gawk at the feeling of a blade against their neck. They didn’t register the man’s movements, and they don’t know _where _he pulled the dagger from, but they know the ebony knife’s dull edge presses into the soft flesh of their lower neck. They freeze and stare at the Keeper, now much closer than before and calmly keeping them boxed in with his body’s stance. It is not the way Cicero positions himself, but the feeling of metal against their throat—_they fell from the sky_—that leaves them unable to move.

“Pretender would die, see?” The jester points out dryly. His tone knocks them back into the present. Cicero squints. “Cicero is very good at what he does. It is an art to keep.”

But they remember it. They remember part of it, at least, the ‘it’ being his _dance _of _blades. _They recall another universe where he used it against Thalmor soldiers sent to drag their ass back to Ondolemar and the Third Aldmeri Dominion. Cicero's movements are graceful and fluid, not like the fighting style most expect for the toned man’s size, but it is exactly the sort of offense that fits Cicero best. He is a jester, and an assassin, and a little bit of both wrapped in questionable stories, excessive remarks, and a lack of personal space that drives most away.

Cicero steps back, but they make a grab for his dagger. He reacts without blinking; the man takes hold of their arm and twists around their body in a second. They hiss in pain as he keeps his grip on their aching arm still as stone. His eyes narrow. “Pretender is a fool.”

“No shit,” Sahkriimir grits their teeth. They growl in pain when Cicero shoves them forward by the arm. They take the few steps and spin on their heels but he’s already slipped forward, ankle hooking their right leg. His dagger is held in a way the sharp end faces outward and away from their body when his hands shove their torso backward. They remember it. They drink in the nostalgia, the feelings, the techniques, because they _need _to learn somehow and if provoking Cicero is the only way than so be it. They hit the ground of the chamber hard and gasp at the familiar sensation of cold steel against their throat. At first, their mind begins to panic, because the memories of _Ansilvund _ring loud and true, but the stench of a jester’s motley snaps them out of it.

Cicero’s knee digs into their chest while his left knee pins their right arm. His eyes are dark and stubborn, because he’s a _very _stubborn man. To Sahkriimir’s surprise, they see something else in his eyes: an intent, deep curiosity, one that sweeps their face over and over.

“_Gol hah, Sahkriimir_.” Sahkriimir whispers the words of another universe’s memory before they can blink.

They are helped to their feet a moment later by the jester. He’s silent, and they don’t know if they’ve made things worse or _much _worse, because they feel the reminder of the world sink in again. They don’t bother to stick around; even if it is not what _Astrid _wants, they imagine she finds their torment pleasurable enough that it doesn’t matter how long it drags on for. Sahkriimir wanders the sanctuary aimlessly, occasionally passing by Nazir or Babette but never sticking around to chat. It’s restlessness, guilt, shame, the whole nine yards comes out to play in their misery as they finally stop back at the one place that could _possibly _provide any comfort: the Night Mother’s sanctuary.

The door is unlocked and open.

They hesitate before entering. It’s empty; Cicero’s not returned, and Rune isn’t around conducting official Listener business. They cross the sanctuary’s length and admire the large stained-glass installation featuring a skull of Sithis embedded in one wall. They examine the shelves of preservative oils and herbs, all neatly arranged and lined-up to perfection. They look at the Night Mother’s casket and the emotions of a past world and a life they desperately craved and continue to _want _comes rushing back.

They put a hand on the casket.

“Night Mother.” Sahkriimir whispers softly, mournfully. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry… I pledged myself to you. To Sithis. When my soul was never my own.”

There is no response, nor will there ever be one, because Rune is Listener.

They feel their eyes well up with tears, but they wipe them away. “Do you remember Kara, Night Mother? The Listener of another world—At the time—My other half. She was your Listener. Your trusted, faithful ear. I was not meant to Listen! I… claimed to be half. I claimed to be half of your sacred choosing.”

They rest their forehead against the casket, vying for _any _semblance of comfort from the cold metal and obsidian clasps.

“Have I enraged all of the Void, Night Mother? For lying? For my sacrilegious actions? Why can’t,” they tense. But the request lingers, and they must say it aloud and beg for the end they cannot have. “Can’t you send the wrath of Sithis to strike me down? End this cycle of punishment? I have disrespected you in my words, my sullied pledges. I am not worthy to call Lucien. I am not worthy of being your Listener. I am not worthy of being a member of this sanctuary! When the day comes—When Mullokah is free—Why not strike me down? Show yourself to Astrid! Keep this sanctuary from ruin, _please_—" They beg, and they beg, and they beg to the air.

They fall to their knees with pain scraping the inside of their head. It’s almost as bad as the time Mercer Frey gouged their voice from their soul, but a thousand times worse and a thousand times better all in its own accord. They hiss and sob when the pain doesn’t die down. They see only white for a moment until their vision clears, though a deep, throbbing headache lingers on. Their gaze looks up at the Night Mother’s coffin, and their eyes start to water all over again, because they hear nothing.

“You broke one of the Tenets.” The voice belongs to a jester, and they don’t know how much he’s heard, but they know he’s heard enough. Sahkriimir’s form stiffens and they struggle to stand, though they know fighting back is worthless. If the man chooses to kill them, he will, and that will be the end of it.

Cicero’s eyes are sullen.

_Accept responsibility. _

Sahkriimir looks to the side. They straighten upright, suck in a breath, and nod. “I did.”

“You know about mudcrab chitin.” Cicero points out quietly. He’s the assassin at that moment, solemn and serious waiting for a kill. “…Without waiting for me to tell you I needed preservative oils. You know it is a preservative.”

“I do.” Sahkriimir states.

“How?” Cicero unsheathes an enchanted ebony dagger, sharp and pointy.

_Accept what you are. _

“You used to tell me about it all the time,” Sahkriimir shuts their eyes. “Always… rambling. I was annoyed at first. But then I started to listen, and I wanted to hear more.”

“Cicero would not ramble pointlessly without reason!” And the jester steps in, one of Cicero’s own walls for handling uncomfortable discussions. They hear him stride across the room. “Pretender has broken one of the Tenets! To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis! What say you, Pretender, _hmmm_?”

“Guilty.” Sahkriimir exhales.

“Guilty, guilty, _guilty, _says the Pretender,” Cicero shouts. “The Pretender _dare _defile the grounds of the Night Mother, of _dear, _sweet Mother, knowing they are _guilty?_”

_Accept the ground you walk on._

“I came to confess and apologize to the Night Mother.” Sahkriimir says. They meet Cicero’s stare and frown. “…It was unacceptable. I see that now.”

“Cicero keeps. Cicero does not decide judgement,” the man grits his teeth. He snaps his finger at the side and calls, _“Lucien Lachance!” _

The summoning of the ancient assassin from two-hundred-years prior to present day Skyrim is an unholy sight. Cicero remains quiet but Sahkriimir’s eyes grow big in awe and fear at the ethereal figure rising from the ground and pulling himself from a sitting position. When he stands, the ghost’s eyes are dead and hold no warmth. The temperature of the room drops several degrees. Lucien Lachance, a former Speaker and beloved child of the Night Mother, looks out from under the shrouded robes that don his figure. He’s tall, taller than them, and bypasses Cicero’s height by several inches.

“…Keeper.” Lucien’s voice is composed if not _menacing. _He’s dangerous, his ghostly dagger seeks blood, and he only needs a word to cut Sahkriimir down before they can blink. “Kill well, and often.”

“Kill well and often, Brother!” Cicero’s voice chirps back before he returns to the previous stormy expression. He jabs a finger at Sahkriimir and declares, “This Pretender has broken the First Tenet, Brother. As _Keeper, _Cicero is not a Silencer, nor Executioner, nor imbued the power to slit the throats of unworthy! I request your _humble _opinion, yes, yes, I do! What say you, Brother, _hmmm? _How will the Pretender be punished?”

_“Punished?_ Keeper...” Lucien tilts his head to one side. His smile brings chills to Sahkriimir’s spine. “I _enjoy _the warmth a blade brings me when… a throat… purges of life.”

“Yes, yes, a _dutiful _emotion, indeed,” Cicero rubs his chin and nods. “Very much so, yes, truly, Cicero agrees with smart, _smart _Lucien!”

“But it is not the Night Mother’s will.” The ghost states calmly.

_“What?!” _The jester gawks and sputters and stares. “How—How can that be? Not that—Cicero does not doubt sweet Mother’s will—But—Pretender said they broke a Tenet! They are not Listener! Are they a Keeper? Speaker? Executioner? Silencer? Who are they, Brother? What is their purpose?”

“Stand aside, Keeper.” Lucien’s words are a suggestion. When Cicero moves, Lucien raises his blade at Sahkriimir. Their face drains of color when Lucien’s next words come in, “They will live their punishment.”

Then the ghost is barreling at them and their mind becomes a rush of memories they don’t understand nor know. The information whispers into the back of their skull and they sidestep and spin out of the way before they know what’s happening. The front of their foot snaps into the ghost’s solid form and kicks him into a shelf of preservatives; their hands come up instinctively and adrenaline pours over their body in a wave of unholy chills. Lucien’s next strikes come quick, two up and one down, but they parry his arms with their own and ignore the crisp surge of pain across their arms in favor of bringing a knee into his side. He flips his dagger on end and makes to stab their side, at which their hands rises and the ghostly knife _impales _their palm.

Sahkriimir growls in pain and frustration, confusion and exhilaration, while Lucien’s spirit grins wickedly. He shoves them backward and they topple to the ground but Sahkriimir rolls to the side when he lunges for them. They throw momentum into coming up into a crouch and holding their arms up to block his next slash. They duck before the specter can get in another slice and shove both hands palm-up into the ghost’s supposed solar plexus. His grunt is their reward and they eye follow through the blow with a swinging kick. It’s not like them, and it’s not _dancing, _but they know it’s what they must do; Lucien yowls in response to the full force of their boot crashing into his body. When he brings his arms up to grab them, they push off him and double backward.

Their arms bleed white into their red-and-black armor. The ghost doesn’t look heavily fazed, but they know how the summoning works: he doesn’t _bleed, _he hunts, he kills, and he fights until dispelled by the summoner or defeated. To their surprise, the specter halts and resumes a neutral stance. Lucien’s smile lingers as a cruel smirk, while Sahkriimir breathes heavily and trembles.

“What is your _answer?”_ The dead Speaker whispers in a long, haunted crawl of echoes. “What are you to our unholy matron?”

Sahkriimir feels nausea replace adrenaline. They stare, rendered speechless by the ordeal.

“Will you… _accept _this? Accept _yourself?_” Lucien steps forward, knife back in hand and prepared to cut more. The ghost doesn’t stop until he’s but a foot away and leering down at their shorter figure. “Your unholy matron _demands_ an answer.”

“I,” they stare. “I am Sahkriimir.”

“Phantom,” the former Speaker hisses, perhaps the only display of emotion since he was summoned.

“Kill.” Sahkriimir affirms.

The ghost sheathes his spectral dagger; it disappears in a short burst of ethereal, translucent mist. _“And who do you bear Allegiance to?”_

“My soul is not my own,” Sahkriimir reminds him, them, everyone and anyone in the Sanctuary, in Skyrim, and in Mundus itself.

“Our unholy matron demands an answer.” The words are repeated more coldly than before. Lucien is a relentless spirit, the perfect epitome of a child of darkness. “_What are you, Phantom-Kill-Allegiance? _Our unholy matron demands an answer.”

“I am…” They feel the headache come back. They grab their head and scream in agony at the pain that stretches across their body head-to-toe. Their legs go numb and their mouth remains open in aching, horrific cries, sounds of a world of a thousand years past and of a time they once forgot. They cannot avoid what they are or who they are. They cannot avoid their Blood-Father, the damnation of their Lord Sheogorath, or the cycle of punishment. They cannot be something they are not, and they are not Listener in this universe.

They come to on a cot in the Dark Brotherhood’s bunk hall. They see Mullokah’s big, brown eyes staring at them. Clucky is clutched tightly in his arms. Nearby, they make out Rune’s figure and foggy face. Their head hurts and they don’t have the strength to stand, but they look around and note Babette and Astrid are present too. Lucien is gone. And Cicero… They don’t know where he is, but he isn’t _there_, and they aren’t dead, and the world continues as it does in a cycle of punishment. Their throat aches, their body sings agonized tunes, and their breath catches in their throat when Rune shakes his head. “…This is…”

“I’ve told you before.” Astrid snaps at the Listener. Her eyes narrow. “Top of the chain. My word goes. This changes _nothing_.”

“No one doubts that, Astrid.” Babette’s voice drifts in. She smiles widely and peers at Sahkriimir. “Aw, look how confused they are! What a lovely night this is turning out to be.”

_“What happened?”_ They croak.

“The really loud man brought you here! He showed me how to juggle while you were asleep! I don’t juggle well.” Mullokah blurts out and eyes them carefully. “Neither does Clucky!”

“I’m glad we’re not turning him into a vampire, now.” Babette huffs from the side.

“We all heard screaming from the other side of the sanctuary.” Rune grimaces.

“Turns out Cicero wasn’t strangling you. I’m almost disappointed,” Babette sighs. “He brought you here and I fixed you up while you babbled incoherently like the jester does in his sleep _and _in his waking hours. You say things I’m not _inclined _to listen to, but this was really _something, _Sahkriimir. Astrid,” the vampire glances up at the taller Nord. “Why don’t you explain?”

“Congratulations,” The leader of the Brotherhood narrows her eyes on Sahkriimir’s form. She steps forward and leers down at them. “—According to a ghost and mad man in a motley—You’re our _newest_ Listener. Because one is great, why not have _two?_”

“I heard it too, Astrid, don’t forget,” Rune confesses quietly. He frowns and stares at Sahkriimir. “You said them. The Binding Words. The words only a Listener could know, and a Keeper could keep.”

_Darkness rises when silence dies. _The voice comes clear as day in their mind. Their face drains of color and they open their mouth to say something, but no words come. They shut their mouth and nod. _A chance to accept the ground. To atone. To find purpose, even under… Lord Sheogorath’s madness._

“So,” Rune rubs the back of his head. “I guess… You’re Listener, too. Not real different, except the jester’ll chase you up a wall instead of heckling me all the time. It’ll be rough.”

“…Won’t.” They whisper softly.

“Won’t what? He won’t heckle you? Annoy you to Oblivion and back? Rant and rave about every little thing he does, you do, back and forth until the sun rises or sets? You sweet, innocent, naïve thing,” Babette laughs and shakes her head. “You haven’t been here long enough to understand how our dear Keeper behaves.”

“No.” They shut their eyes and exhale softly. “…It won’t be… _rough_. It’ll be… dancing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because there's a short time skip across this time chapter  
the next chapter/s will take place during that time skip  
just an fyi :0
> 
> thanks for reading :D


	33. fight daedra with daedra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an amulet of mara winds up leading kara, vex, and brynjolf to the shrine of clavicus vile. the daedric prince has unsettling news for them.

The fire of the trio’s humble camp is a small, dancing blaze of orange and red against an otherwise white wilderness. The forests of Skyrim’s southern mountain pass are laden with snow to the point Kara fears some trees might bend and _snap _under the weight of their frozen canopies. She shifts her sleeping roll away from the edge of camp closest to the tree line. When she turns back to the fire, her brows furrow at the sight of the flames receding. Kara picks up a log and adds it to the pit before the fire wilts completely; it took far too long for her to get the wood to burn in the first place and she can’t _yol toor shul _her way to warmth all night.

Across the camp, the white-haired Vex brushes down her mare and drapes a blanket over the animals back. She briefly meets Kara’s eyes and the duo stare at one another before Kara looks away.

“Bryn, you have first watch.” Vex calls to the trees. _“Brynjolf!”_

“You trying to drag all dragons in a miles radius to us, little Vex?” The man isn’t amused when he emerges from the trees.

“I’m not afraid of flying winged freaks.” The Imperial’s eyes narrow.

“But you’ll be hungry in the morning, and the noise might scare off any game from my traps.” Brynjolf takes a brush from the woman and turns to the horse. He pauses. “This ones lost weight. If the horses got to be eaten, you walk.”

Kara briefly smiles. She can’t help it; the lighthearted remarks are both not so lighthearted but also what she needs to focus on. She feels emotionally drained from the mental toll of trying to handle debating Daedric Princes and navigating complicated friendships with her thieves-in-arms. She and Vex have barely spoken a word to the other since the Sepulcher, and even before that—back in Riften when they left it was on sour terms, but this time it is her choice to cease talking. She isn’t ready to have that kind of conversation with Vex. She doesn’t know if she will ever forgive the woman, or if she can let any of it go. She recalls how the lady made her feel when she told Kara to her face she thought she was making everything up. She didn’t make sense. Vex didn’t believe her.

The trials of trekking Skyrim in late winter doesn’t make it easier. The three constantly camp close together in pockets of flat ground against a frigid wild land. Vex and her _have _to talk sometime, especially when relaying information about dragons heard in the distance or spotted overhead. Three times the past day alone, Kara has found herself throwing an arm out across the front of the party or gesturing wildly for Brynjolf and Vex to _shut up_ right before a drake soars the skies above. There’s no doubt in her mind: Alduin and dragonkind are behaving strangely, flocking to the mountains in droves that increase every day. But to Kara’s surprise, no actual _conflicts _have risen between the trio and dragons despite the Dragonborn firmly believing they encroach on dragon territory.

It worries her.

_“Vex,”_ the tone in Brynolf’s voice makes Kara snap upright and focus. She glances across the camp and holds a hand to her mouth to muffle snorts. The Nord looks _increasingly _annoyed and tense as he reaches for a shiny metal amulet held in Vex’s nimble grasp. Brynjolf grits his teeth after several seconds of trying to take it from her directly. “I mean it.”

“This? You want _this? _Hmmm, no, not until I hear why,” the white-haired Imperial dances around the Nord in swift steps and a haughty grin. Vex waves the Amulet of Mara in front of Brynjolf’s face and she laughs when she sidesteps another attempt to snatch it. “C’mon, you really thought I wouldn’t notice you wearing _this?_”

“Why do you have that?” Kara clears her throat. The sound’s enough of a distraction for Brynjolf to seize the amulet from Vex. The Dragonborn huffs. “Now I can’t let it go, Brynjolf. Not answering makes me _intrigued.”_

“It belongs to lassie,” the Nord scowls. “I’m holding unto it for them.”

“Does the dragonface know what that useless necklace means in Skyrim?” Vex crosses her arms and snorts. “Do _you _even remember, Brynjolf? Accepting an Amulet oughta be marrying a person! Unless you’re an oblivious kid, who’d be absurd enough to lug that piece of metal around if not for their,” the imperial thief pretends to swoon as she draws out the word, _“—beloved?” _

For a moment, it feels like all three are back in Riften, at the guild’s cistern or Ragged Flagon. Kara imagines the trio sitting at the bar, with Vekel serving the other two drinks while she shoves a coin at him so Dirge doesn’t kick her out over the lack of patronage. It’s a warm thought. Kara smiles.

“Who knows,” Brynjolf tucks the Amulet of Mara into one pocket. He wears a crafty grin. “Future holds possibilities. I think lassie and I are on a solid path. They want to call me their _mate._”

Vex snorts. “Sounds like shit a crew calls each other on the seas.”

“Vex?” Kara speaks her name before she can stop herself. The Dragonborn feels her face heat up. She feels her own frustration with the woman return when Vex stares at her. “Nevermind. I’m not talking to you.”

“You want to borrow my amulet, little Vex?” Brynjolf’s words are rewarded with a growl from the Imperial woman. He snickers and walks to the next horse to brush. “It’ll be here if you need it.”

“Talos, Bryn, can’t you take a hint to _shut up?_” Vex screeches. “First time Kara addresses me by name in _days—_You miserable _prick—_”

“Ought to tell you the same, lass.” Is the Nord’s response.

Kara keeps her gaze focused on the fire pit. She adds another log to the fire and stiffens when footsteps approach. Snow crunches underfoot up till two feet from where she sits on her bedroll. Kara doesn’t want to look up but she does; she narrows her eyes at the sight of Vex standing there with her arms crossed and a stubborn glare aimed at Kara. The Dragonborn looks back at the flames. When Vex doesn’t move or leave, Kara finally gives in and huffs. “_How _can I help you?”

“I’m sorry I tried to gut your throat that day in the cistern.” Vex snaps.

Kara raises a brow. “Okay?”

“I’m not _done,_” the imperial woman grits her teeth. “I’m sorry I treated you like shit back when Goldenglow was a thing.”

“Done now?” The Dragonborn asks.

“No! Divines, Kara, all Nine of them—” Vex holds her head in her hands. “Just let me _finish_.”

“You keep pausing!” 

“It’s hard to do _words!_ You know that—About me—So—Give me a moment, here,” Vex clenches her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. Kara keeps quiet. After a painfully awkward minute, Vex continues quietly. “I’m sorry for telling you I thought you were a crock of utter _bullshit_, Kara. For saying you didn’t make sense. For snapping at you a million times to Solitude and back. For being pissy you didn’t blab about Mercer Frey probably stabbing us in the back a billion months ago. For not… considering how you might feel in all of _this,_” the woman gestures theatrically. It’s amusing enough to make Kara want to smile. Vex sighs and lowers her arms to her sides. “Truthfully, I don’t understand you—”

“And there goes that _nice_ moment,” the Dragonborn’s sullied expression returns. She chucks a log into the fire pit and crosses her arms. “Anything else you feel like confessing? Or just trying to piss me off?”

“Divines, you are worse than literally everyone else in this guild, I swear!” Vex curses under breath and exhales sharply. “Kara, I _don’t _understand you. I don’t know if I will ever understand you, okay?”

Kara’s eyes narrow. “Okay?”

“But I want to,” Vex looks off to the side. “I… want to understand what in Oblivion goes on in your head.”

“That’s not what I thought you were going to say.” The Dragonborn stares.

“Good! Because I hate being predictable, and it pisses me off to no end that everyone assumes I’m the big, bad _bitch_ in this messed up world,” Vex grits her teeth. “_Kara, _I said all that shit back in Riften because I’m not the big, bad bitch, okay? I’m… not handling this well. All of this. This… stuff about _other worlds_, about Divines I ain’t ever heard of—About _Sahkriimir, _about you turning into a prophesied _Hero of Legend, _about—About Sheogorath? The Daedric Prince? All the other shit that ought to go in and out of this head like a knife wound? My brain doesn’t get it. It’s freaking me out. I’m _scared, _okay?”

The woman sounds defeated. Vex looks at her feet. Kara watches the thief’s shoulders slump.

“I hate the thought of—Not being in control of this shit. Of shit affecting the Guild, affecting _you. _It bothers me,” the Imperial confesses quietly. “I don’t… know how you can handle all this stuff happening and not be terrified. How can you look madness in the eye and continue living? –And don’t answer that, ‘cause I’m _not done, _okay?”

Kara’s gaze softens. She shakes her head and waves for the woman to continue.

“I lashed out at you in Riften.” Vex states. She exhales slowly. “—And I’m—_Sorry—_I mean it—I’m sorry I just… took all that shit you’ve _lived _through and made it about me not believing you. You didn’t do jack shit wrong. I just—I didn’t handle _me _well. I still don’t handle _me _well. That’s a _me _problem, not a _you _problem.”

When Kara pats the spot next to her on her bedroll, Vex hesitates before sitting down. Both women face the small fire. Kara extends her hands out to it to indulge in its warmth. She waits a moment before stating, “…That’s mature of you to say.”

“We’re adults. We aren’t teenagers.” Vex grumbles under breath. “That’s what Brynjolf’s probably thinking right now, huh? Predictable asshole. But he’s right.”

“He is.”

“I don’t know if we can get to whatever we had before. That…” Vex looks away. When Kara glances over, part of her is surprised to see the faint blush on Vex’s cheeks. “…Maybe that isn’t something we can go back to. Okay. I’ll accept it. But I hope we can go back to _something_. ‘Cause I _do _want to know what goes on in your head. I want to try to…understand how you see things. I _value _your opinion, and presence, and—_Oblivion_, I sound like a sappy fuck, don’t I?”

“I’m listening,” Kara pauses. “Pretty sure Brynjolf is too.”

“Me and the horses!” The Nord calls from the side, waving a brush wildly in the air and offering a chuckle before turning back to the animals.

“What a shit show.” Vex hisses softly. “I’ll stab him in his sleep if he tells Delvin.”

“He most definitely will,” Kara shrugs amicably. “You better sharpen your knives.”

“Divines, I can’t wait we’re back in Riften. Skyrim _sucks _in the winter.” Vex wraps her arms around herself and shivers. The woman hesitates and glances back over to Kara; Vex quietly asks, “What were you going to say earlier?”

“Oh. Uh.” The Dremora rubs the back of her head. She smiles faintly. “I was just… going to mention… Or, well. I was going to _ask _if you were a sailor or pirate or something of the sort in your younger years. You mentioned… Zeus, I don’t remember what—sailors knots, or something like that? Once? And I just—I couldn’t help but think of it when you mentioned how astonishing and ridiculous it’d be to hear Sahkriimir refer to Brynjolf as _mate. _Which, regardless how he feels about it, is an opinion I fully agree with.”

“You remember that? That was—I don’t know how long ago? Months? It was right after we found Sahkriimir in that tomb.” Vex blinks.

Kara shrugs. “I pay attention on occasion.”

The duo hears a loud bout of cursing spring from the horses and Brynjolf nearby. Kara pulls herself to her feet while Vex leaps up. Kara snorts while Vex huffs loudly. “You step in horse shit, Bryn?”

“_Give it_!” The string of words that follow is far too colorful for the usual level-headed Nord. Brynjolf looks _pissed _as he storms after and makes a lunge for a furry, fluffy blob. Kara’s eyes widen at the sight of a majestic brown dog with floppy ears and a wagging tail. The dog is energetic and attentive to each of Brynjolf’s movements. When Kara gestures for Vex to begin sneaking up on it alongside her, the dog snaps its head up and faces the duo.

It has Brynjolf’s Amulet of Mara in its mouth.

Vex holds her sides and doubles down with laughter. Kara snorts. “This is what you’re worried about?”

“It’s _Sahkriimir’s!_” Brynjolf shouts. The words make the dog’s tail wiggle faster.

The dog leaps away when Brynjolf staggers forward. The Nord runs after it around the camp while Vex remains where she is and Kara debates interfering. When the dog takes off into the trees and Brynjolf follows, Kara gawks and sputters. “Brynjolf—Brynjolf! It’s getting dark! _Zeus,_ you stubborn Nord!”

Following him into the wilderness is a mistake but Kara’s as stubborn as the people around her. When she bolts, she _runs_ and she doesn’t stop until she’s in the middle of the wilds, panting and out of breath. She comes upon Brynjolf’s equally exhausted form; the ginger-haired man leans a hand against a tree to avoid falling over. Behind the two, Vex trails and catches up to the duo with a scowl on her face. The sun has dipped below the horizon line and the wind picks up. In the distance, all three stiffen at the sound of large wings flapping. Brynjolf moves forward and continues trudging through snow, following the path of paw prints left across the ground.

“We left the horses!” Kara chides the man loudly. “I should pull a Sahkriimir and call you _mey, _Brynjolf!”

“I can’t let it get away with that amulet!” The Nord shouts back at her and continues after the dog.

The dog appears to know where it’s heading, or it did when it scurried forward. There’s no hesitation in the tracks and the path doesn’t split off or double back anywhere. Kara waits for Vex before following Brynjolf or the tracks any further. The duo meet at the base of a hulking cliff, where the woods end and a cave dips away into the depths of the rock. Vex and Kara give each other a glance before Kara casts a minor magelight spell ahead and illuminates a long, empty shaft steadily going deeper and deeper. Kara gawks. “Did Brynjolf really go through here?”

“This… It creeps me out.” Vex grimaces.

Small, wet prints and larger boot prints show where Brynjolf and the dog went. Kara walks slowly down the slope of the cave’s chamber. She grips the wall with one hand and uses any stalagmites around as handholds to help keep her balance. Vex follows suit. A hundred or so yards in, when the air becomes especially dank and nasty, a series of sharp barks and cursing rings. Kara’s careful footing becomes a flurry of sudden steps as she lurches forward and bolts for the noise. Vex’s footsteps ring loudly behind her. The two round a corner and Kara comes to a sudden stop; Vex nigh avoids crashing into her. The woman curses softly at the sight whereas Kara _stares _at the candlelit shrine of a Daedric Prince.

Brynjolf sits on the ground, face white as a ghost, staring in horror at the very dog that made off with an Amulet earlier. “You—You—”

“Ain’t hear dogs with bite and bark? The Oblivion’s wrong with you? Don’t go assumin’ the same of all dogs! Or stereotypes! Useless mortals, all you lot,” the dog snaps back at the Nord. He turns his head to stare at Kara and Vex and barks in a huff. “Lookie you, Dragonborn! All _fancy-pancy _in that Dremora get-up! You’re real lucky we ain’t one of those Princes that go ‘round and fuck up pretty faces, ‘cause my main man here knows a Daedra or two that want you _dead._”

“Talos help us.” Brynjolf mumbles. He scoots backward from the dog when it approaches.

“Barbas, stop it.” Kara calls the Daedric dog’s name. She grits her teeth and marches forward. The dog looks at her inquisitively while her eyes blaze in anger. “You shit! If our horses are gone or dead or taken by dragons—_Beyn, dii rahgot los et’Ada._ I will make it _painful _for you to reform in the Void.”

“Woah—Woah! Don’t knock me down so quickly, _Kara, _it ain’t do much good for my main man here if you stick my head on a _pike! _C’mon, hear us out, give ol’ Vile a chance—He sent me to bring you _here _after all!” The dog whines. Kara despises how convincing it is, utterly innocent and devoid of guilt when she knows _very _well the Daedra is an unholy incarnation of a Prince’s grandiose powers.

Vex walks to Brynjolf and offers him a hand. His hands tremble in shock. “—Thanks. Vex.”

Vex grimaces. “Like this day could get weirder.”

Kara dumps Barbas on the ground. She crosses her arms and turns to face the illuminated statue in the back of the chamber. Surrounded by candles, carved to wear luscious silks, is the marble-like statue of a humanoid in his twenties. He’s carved to look spectacular and far more attracting than he deserves to be. On the statues head, two long, spiraling horns protrude. If Kara wasn’t so pissed, she might take a moment to enjoy the experienced handiwork that went into making the statue of Clavicus Vile. The statue holds a hand out in an eternal, inviting pose.

“I know you’re there, Vile.” Kara spits.

“—Of course you would,” and the voice spills out from the statue and walls of the shrine. It is formal, fancy, and full of life, but an undertone in the voice’s words makes Kara want to cringe and leave the area. “You know many things, Kara Dragonborn. Many, many things… It’s time we were properly acquainted! I wish to apologize for my pup’s _crude _behavior, but I understand it is difficult to fancy your time when I don’t reek of wine or thievery.”

A faint blush crawls on Kara’s cheeks. She stiffens. “Don’t bring them into this. _Either _of them.”

“No, no, I’m not _Sanguine_, I wouldn’t dare engage in such trifling acts! No, I want to talk about _another _matter.” The statue’s lack of movements, motion, animation, it all leaves Kara feeling increasingly unsettled. Clavicus Vile’s voice stretches through the cave and reverberates. “I heard you have a… _Nightingale _problem.”

“I want the Amulet back.” Brynjolf sputters the words.

Kara wants to strangle the man, but only metaphorically.

Clavicus Vile’s voice _booms. _He _laughs _and cackles and howls in humor at the Nord’s suggestion. Barbas joins in the howls with barks of his own.

“A _mortal _dare _speaks_ in my presence unprovoked? You are a pawn to my power! You will not speak until _I _ask it of you—I promise to fill your life with _regret _if you dare disrespect me in my shrine.” The Daedric Prince’s warning is final.

Brynjolf grits his teeth; sweat falls off the man’s brows but he keeps his mouth shut.

“Now then… Kara.” Vile’s voice returns to the Dremora.

The Dragonborn’s eyes narrow. “Don’t threaten him.”

“Or you’ll do what? Come to my plane of Oblivion? Enjoy watching the world turn itself on end in your absence? You play an important role! I fancy the stakes, the pacts to be made! I am not here to _harm, _but I demand respect where my worship begins!” The Prince hisses the last sentence. “Worse comes to it—Barbas will deal with you _personally._”

“Desecrating shit? Guess what I’m good at. You piss Vile off—I’ll pee all over that armor of yours. Think I can’t aim? Guess again,” Barbas barks in affirmation. He lifts a leg and Kara growls at him. The dog lowers the leg and sits down, patiently awaiting any orders from his master.

“Vex, Brynjolf—Stay back.” The Dragonborn advises. She strides past Barbas and walks up to the statue of Clavicus Vile. Her brown eyes seethe in irritation. “Tell me what you want to say, Daedra. I don’t have patience for _you._”

“You’re having trouble with the Last Nightingale.” The Daedric Prince utters scantily.

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. Why’s it matter to you?” The Dragonborn growls. “I have _luck _on my side, Vile. I don’t need what you’re offering.”

“Oh, but you _do,_ because you have a _short _bout of luck that relies on you performing a favor for the Lady of Darkness, the Queen of Murk,” even without any theatrical motions or body language, Kara still wants to smash the statue’s face in as Clavicus drawls on. “Don’t look at me so _surprised_, my humble Daedraborn. I am the Prince of Pacts and Wishes, after all! Every _little _deal between Daedra and mortals passes through my sphere of influence, my realm of _knowledge. _You shouldn’t underestimate a Prince—Not even one in a weakened state.”

“—Should say the same to you, then.” The Dremora barks.

“You’re on _Mundus. _Naughty, naughty Daedraborn—To think it would go unnoticed. But right now, it offers a buffer between the two of us. I am in Oblivion and you walk Mundus and _neither _of us can touch the other _directly. _It is _ripe _for alliances, truces—”

“I’ve made enough deals with Daedra to hold off on any other arrangements for the foreseeable future. If you aren't offering well, I'll pass.” Kara reiterates the statement by turning to leave.

“—You want Mercer Frey’s location.” Clavicus Vile’s voice cuts through the air. “Listen, listen, let me _speak _sweet nothings in your ear, Daedraborn—I can _offer _you the information you want!”

“How could this asshole possibly know about Frey?” Vex’s growl echoes across the cave.

“Silence! Only the Daedraborn speaks, lest Barbas slices through your neck and wears your spine as a collar.” The Daedric Prince hisses.

_“Don’t threaten her,” _this time Kara draws an ebony shortsword and points at the statue and Barbas at its base. “Last warning.”

“Then enough formalities! To Oblivion with it! I’ve had a chat with _Mephala,_” the Prince’s voice wraps around Kara like a nauseating odor. “She knows a thing or two about the traitorous Nightingale.”

“Her sphere covers, what? Secrets? Schemes? Acts of that nature? Color me un-surprised. Of _course _she knows. ...What does she know?” Kara presses the Prince on an answer. She sheathes her shortsword as a sign of good faith, though her hand lingers at the hilt and guard.

Disembodied laughter sounds out, “No, no, I can’t tell you _what _I know until you agree—”

Barbas barks.

“To take the _disgusting_ mutt off my hands.” Clavicus Vile’s statue stays idle but the voice reeks of amusement and agitation, nothing like the _slightly _frivolous tone before. “Take Barbas! My loyal, useless hound—Take him with you and I will _happily _cough up what Mephala told me.”

“Hold on a minute. Brynjolf, Vex,” Kara steps to the two and crosses her arms. She frowns and looks from one thief to the other. “I’m asking you for your thoughts and informing you that regardless of my decision none of us can be pissed at one another over it.”

“You—You can’t really be thinkin’ of making _another_ deal with a Daedra, lass,” Brynjolf’s protests are cut off by Kara’s huff.

“—I’m considering it.” The Dremora gives an honest reply. “Mercer’s too many steps ahead of us.”

“We should’ve asked Nocturnal where he was.” Vex curses under breath.

“If he has the Skeleton Key—He—He may have unlocked the potential to mask himself from her.” Kara fumbles through the excuse. She glances away. _I should have thought of that. But even if I did—You can’t trust Nocturnal. Luck’s a better trade; longer lasting and… I should have thought of that. _Her cheeks flush gray at the thought.

“I doubt Nocturnal knew where he was. If she did—She’d mention it. Faster to get her artifact back.” Brynjolf points out. He sighs. 

Kara nods quickly. “That—That too. I agree.”

“Are we really about to take this ugly dog and babysit him?” Vex holds her head in her hands. “_Kara._”

“Barbas won’t… kill us. He’s not very strong in this form.” Kara bites her lip.

“He’s a Daedra, right?” Brynjolf’s eyes narrow. “That’s… not company I like to keep, lasses.”

“Vile!” Kara shouts over her shoulder. She turns to face the statue. The Dragonborn walks forward and grits her teeth, already irritated to be stuck addressing a Daedric Prince once more. “How long?”

“Long? _Long? _Whatever could you mean, Daedraborn? _Kara?_” The Prince’s voice wafts around her form.

She growls. “How long is the _dog _stuck with us? Barbas? If I say yes?”

“Let’s make it… Two months. That should be proper and right, yes? Adequate time for an adequate journey! I reckon if you can’t find him in two months the problem will go away on its own.” Vile’s words make her body go rigid.

“What—What do you mean by that?” Kara sputters.

“—Oh, don’t tell me, Daedraborn, you’ve _missed _the flocks of _dov _hounding the mountains! The Throat of the World! Even now, dragonkind continues to gather and wait under the World Eater’s orders.” Clavicus Vile laughs again. The statue gives Kara the creeps in how utterly _still _it is in spite the Prince’s vile behavior.

“…I know they are meeting there. Why? What order? What does Alduin plan to do?” It’s apparent she’s got another problem to address on her to-do list because the laughter increases. Kara’s hands clench into fists and she stomps over to Barbas and the statue of Vile. “Tell me! _Vile! _What is Alduin planning?”

“To _invade, _Daedraborn.” Vile’s words makes her blood freeze.

“…What?” Kara stares. “Where could he…?”

“The _Shivering Isles. _Oh, did you _really _forget _dov _are notorious bastards? Or is your memory _that _lapsed?” Vile continues without a care in the world, utterly amused by her reaction. “Kara, Kara, _Kara. _Perhaps you should consult _Sanguine _on this matter—He hasn’t told you _everything _that’s gone on, has he?”

Her eyes darken. She growls. “Maybe not.”

“Maybe not, hmmm, that sounds like a _no _to me,” The Daedric Prince chuckles. “I’m a _kind _and _benevolent _being—I’ll spare you the audacity of summoning the Daedra. Not that _you _can, I’m well aware, but in case you run into someone who _knows _how to cast the spell—I’ll let my words reach you first. Alduin plans to invade Sheogorath’s plane of Oblivion. His goals have shifted from the aims of Skyrim to that of removing the Daedric Prince from power and _annihilating all who stand in his way. _He won’t risk Sheogorath resetting the world. No more cycles for a World Eater! None lest he triggers it anew! He’s a picky boy, he is.”

“He’s capable of biting you in half and eating you for breakfast. Show some respect.” Kara crosses her arms. She squints at the statue. “Two months? Is that _our _time limit now?”

“If Alduin invades the Isles—What do you think Sheogorath will do?”

“He’ll…Call Sahkriimir back… To his side. To fight Alduin. Fuck. _Oblivion,_” Kara growls and throws her hands into the air. “Why can’t gods give me _one second _to breathe instead of shoving all this junk at me and expecting me to deal with it?!”

“You don’t have to deal with it. It’s up to you.” The Daedric Prince’s sneer does not have to be seen to be _heard. _

“Is two months the minimum time, maximum, how much time do I have to find a solution to this?” Kara snaps.

“It’s an _estimate.” _The Prince hums.

Barbas barks. “An estimate! You heard the man!”

“Oh, Barbas, you were doing _so _well shutting up and keeping to yourself until then… Useless rodent, you filthy lot,” Clavicus Vile grumbles under breath. His statue does nothing but the voice carries on. “Kara! I need an answer. Yes or not? Do you _want _my help, Daedraborn? Do you want to solve this on your own? Because you’re _slacking, _and time’s running out to pick up the pace!”

“I’ll take Barbas for two months. You tell me where Mercer Frey is. No one touches each others souls, got it? And if Barbas pees on _any _of my things—I’ll wring his neck on the spot and you’ll do nothing about it.” Kara grimaces.

Barbas’ whine is long and audible. “But—But—But I _like _taking the piss out on things—Vile, my guy, my _main _man, you can’t—”

“Agreed. Take the dog.” The statue remains idle but Vile sounds _happy _at Kara’s cooperation.

“Tell me about Mercer Frey. Where is he right now? What is he doing? The more info you give, the sooner I can leave this dump.” The Dremora’s eyes narrow on the shrine. “Vile.”

“He’s in Riften. In your beloved_ Thieves Guild._ Dare I say—_Looking for someone?_” Vile’s words draw an audible exhale from Kara’s form. Barbas barks in delight.

Kara doesn’t have time to think before she hears Brynjolf’s _profound _string of curses. The man’s already turned and trekking back out of the cave before she can finish shouting his name. Kara clambers after the Nord and yells behind her as she goes, “Vex! Vex, bring the dog!”

“I got a name—” Barbas howls.

Kara breaks into a run when possible. She pulls herself up the slope of the cave with crumbly rock and stalagmites as her handholds and footholds. Brynjolf doesn’t stop cursing until he’s outside, and only then Kara spies him stopping to pull a flask of alcohol from his waist, uncork it, and take a badly-needed swig. When she strides to his side, she’s appalled to see his hands shake in a mixture of boiling emotions, primarily _rage _and _fear. _Her eyes dim and she grits her teeth, “Brynjolf. Hey—Brynjolf!”

“I should have stayed—We should have taken lassie with us—” The man rants. He lifts the flask to his lips and swallows the rest of its contents in a long, desperate gulp.

Kara exhales sharply. “It’s not ideal, but—”

“I _promised _I wouldn’t let him lay a hand on Sahkriimir! Not _again! _Never!” The man’s shout makes her chest ache. “I promised them, Kara!”

“Delvin and Tonilia are at the guild, aren’t they?” Kara grits her teeth. “They aren’t alone!”

“Talos, Mullokah’s there too,” Brynjolf holds his head in his hands. “If he lays a _hand _on Mullokah’s head—Tries to do _jack shit, _lass—I—”

“Calm down!” Kara sputters. She isn’t sure what else to say, because for once she’s at a loss of words. “I’m sure—I’m sure they are both fine, Brynjolf—They’re both smart—They have the rest of the guild there!”

“The rest of _what _guild? The Thieves Guild? We’re dying, Kara! The Guild’s on its last limbs, lass! Niruin, Rune, Thrynn—_Dead! _Mercer? _Gone, _a bastard if I’ve ever known one! We have barely anything to our fucking name!” Brynjolf begins cursing again, again, again, and every new string of colorful words makes Kara grow more and more quiet. By the time he’s out of words to use, Vex has dragged Barbas out of the cave by the scruff of the dog’s neck. The white-haired woman dumps the dog between the three. Brynjolf seethes where he stands.

“Barbas, can you sniff out where we left our horses?” Kara kneels next to the dog and eyes him warily.

“The horses might as well be dead. We can’t get to Riften in less than a week! A _week, _Kara!” Brynjolf snaps the words. It’s unnerving to see the one member of the guild that could be described as _reliable _and _level-headed _lose his temper.

Kara inhales deeply. She knows she might regret it later, but she stands and turns to Brynjolf. “I’m going to apologize for this later but you aren’t helping the situation and I can’t—I _can’t _afford to become stressed right now, I’m sorry—_Kaan drem ov!” _She breathes out the words of the _Kyne’s Peace _shout on the man before he can react.

It goes into effect instantly. Brynjolf’s agitated form stills and slumps where he stands. His eyes dim in a fog of thu’um-induced, magical serenity. His lips quirk up faintly and he mumbles in response, “What?”

“That wasn’t necessary,” Vex interjects with a frown. “Kara.”

“Barbas.” Kara looks back at the dog. “Can you?”

“Find the stank coming off your steeds? Oh, boy, do I got a sniffer to show _you…_ Right this way…” the dog trots off. Kara takes Brynjolf by the arm and pulls him after Barbas, with Vex trailing the two.

As they walk, Kara looks back at Vex and states. “I can’t be worried about Brynjolf _and _Sahkriimir and Mullokah, Vex. I can’t—It’s not ideal—”

“You may as well have bent his will into submission, Kara! Just ordered him to go to Riften.” The Imperial exhales sharply. “He’s _upset._”

“With good reason, I’m not denying that.” The Dremora grimaces. “—But right now we don’t have time to take a rain check and let Brynjolf scream it out for hours. We need to _go. _If Mercer Frey’s in Riften—We have to _hurry._ I don’t know what he’s there for, but…”

“Should’ve asked the Prince that, Oblivion,” Vex grits her teeth. “What _could _he be there for? He has Sahkriimir’s _voice_, right?”

“One thing comes to mind, and it's exactly why I can’t waste time keeping Brynjolf from becoming a fucking mess in the middle of the wilderness,” Kara sighs deeply. She frowns as she states, “I think... Mercer Frey's after Mullokah’s _thu'um._ He’s capable of doing it. We can’t stop him if he’s already there, Vex. I don’t know if anyone can if Mercer’s found a work around any potential will-bend shouts thanks to the Skeleton Key. We just… We have to try to pick up the pieces afterward.”

“Can the Skeleton Key really do all that?” Vex whistles sharply.

As Brynjolf begins to point out how much trees look like _trees, _Kara grits her teeth. The Dremora walks faster. “—It can unlock any potential. It’s starting to scare me how much applies to that definition.”

“How in Oblivion do we get from Point A to Point I-Cut-Mercer-Frey’s-Throat, then? Huh?” Vex grumbles under breath.

Kara’s eyes dim. “We find him. We fight him. We’ll figure it out. I'm lucky. He's... hopefully not.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“It’s not,” the Dragonborn reluctantly agrees. “But Mercer Frey’s two steps ahead of us. We can’t be _predictable. _We need to improvise to the point we cut him off—That’s—That’s how I see it _now.”_

“So you start making pacts with a billion fucking Daedra. That’s improvisation.” Vex raises a brow at her.

“Fight fire with fire, right? Fight Daedra with Daedra. I’m sure it’s a saying,” Kara bites her lip as snow begins to fall overhead. “…somewhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter takes place during the later-middle of the last chapter :0  
thanks for reading ^ _ ^  
edit: YA'LL SAW NOTHING ABOUT MIRAAK SHHHHH


	34. you owe me a debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cadha is a conjurer whose life has become a wagon wreck since the thieves guild killed her companions and took her captive. the dunmer wanting to conjure a daedra? that should have been her first warning things were about to go from bad to worse.

When the Daedric Prince first steps out of the violet sphere, the half-elf woman stares in disbelief. Shock rattles her features. She doesn’t know how the strange dunmer in the inn room, the supposed—and probable—Dragonborn, manages not to scream, because the Daedric Prince is _massive _and _horrifying _and a _sight _to witness. She can’t stand to stare at the Daedra’s ruby-red eyes, because the sight instills nausea and dread and an intoxicating quality that makes her dry-heave in the back of the room. She manages to note all his other features: the menacing full-plate mail armor he dons, the enchantments swirling over the Daedric metal, the muscles and wicked grin and the four horns on the Prince’s head. All of it _terrifies _her, almost as much as half the thieves in the room do.

A pungent smell of alcohol seeps through the room as the dunmer, Kara, addresses the Prince.

“Kara,” the Prince’s tone is strange even if the words are not directed at her but at the dunmer. “Look at you, still in one piece! How’s my favorite Dragonborn doing?”

“_Who are you?” _Kara’s words are as shocked as Cadha feels. Except the dunmer appears far more _capable _and in-control compared to the half-Nord. “You’re not Sullivan. Are you his Lord? _Lord Sanguine?_”

“So, it’s true. You let Sheogorath’s madness alter your memories.”

Cadha doesn’t know what to think of the words. She only perceives the power presented in the seven-foot-tall Daedric Prince, surpassing her own modest height of six feet. Her face drains of color at the realization _she _summoned it, conjured it, brought it from the depths of Oblivion. If it kills anyone, if it harms an innocent, she doesn’t know if she can forgive herself. It’s bad enough she’s been forced to watch her only companions die at the hands of her captors! Even if one of her captors _might _be someone she knows.

_This is a mess. A mess! A mess. It’s a mess. _The woman’s weary thoughts spiral in circles as Kara and the Prince go back-and-forth with each other for several long, painful minutes. Cadha’s wrists hurt even though the Thieves Guild members unbound them minutes prior to the madness. Rope burns cut into her wrists anyways; she knows she needs a health potion, but she doesn’t see a way to get one anytime soon, lest the _kind Thieves _around her donate what is probably stolen loot. Cadha grimaces internally. She keeps her best poker face on; she’s long-since developed means to keep her head on straight and her heart from breaking out of her chest in panic.

“It means,” the conversation lulls a moment while the Daedric Prince’s tone dips low, just high enough to hear as a whisper. “—You wanted to _talk._”

“I wanted to—” Kara’s hands go to her head. Cadha’s blue eyes widen and she stares blankly when the Dragonborn starts _wailing. _

“What in Oblivion did you do to her?! _Kara!” _The white-haired woman Cadha vaguely remembers as _Vex _screeches aloud and runs to Kara’s side. “Kara! _Kara!”_

“I gave her motivation to remember.” The Daedric Prince grins wickedly at the group.

“Mage!” The voice snaps from the side. Cadha doesn’t want to meet the Nord’s eyes, but she does, and she grimaces at the possibility she might _actually _be related to the ginger-haired Nord. “Dispel him! Dispel the Daedra, lass!”

“Mm,” Cadha grits her teeth and lifts her hands. She calls on the stores of her magicka, on the empty pools, and begs them to revoke the Daedra’s permission to manifest on Mundus and return to the ungodly planes of Oblivion it belongs. Yet when she opens her eyes—She finds the ruby red stare _watching _her specifically. Cadha stiffens and gawks. “I—I—”

“I’m not easily _dispelled, Cadha, _if you could _cut it the fuck out,_” the Daedric Prince snorts and waves her attempts off. He looks back at the Dragonborn and grimaces. “I don’t _enjoy _making her go through this but I’m not letting _Sheo _claim her memories as his prize.”

“What does that mean?!” One of the thieves, an Imperial man with deep laugh lines and confusion written on his face, shouts brazenly at the Daedra. “Who is Sheo?!”

“Sheogorath?” The Daedra groans audibly. He brushes past the stunned humans and bosmer without a care, reaches under an overturned mattress, and retrieves a bottle of wine and empty glass. He uncorks it with his bare hands and pours himself a drink. “Good flavor, this one. Where’d ya hide it, hm? Hmm? _Hmmm? _One of you more of a drinker than you want to admit? I know some of you got thoughts going through those heads and they ain’t pretty!”

The door to the inn room _pounds _in anger. A second later keys jumble and before anyone can open it, the innkeeper bursts into the room and howls in rage. “You useless lot! Wakin’ all my guests! If you don’t quiet down—"

“We are all your guests!” Vex snaps. “And if you can’t tell—We got a _situation—_”

“Keeping an extra man in the wings?! Cheap scum!” The innkeeper hisses. “Out, you lot, out! Out!”

“How do you not see—” Vex’s face goes white when she turns to look where the Daedric Prince stood. In his place is a Breton with black robes and tussled brown hair. His smile is full of mischief and mirth in the worst way possible.

“Guess we got to go! Sucks it had to be this way, huh? Better kick us all out, yep,” the mysterious Breton throws his hands in the air. “I’ll be waiting outside!” He calls as he strides out, wineglass still in hand.

“If you could just—Give us a moment to explain—” The ginger-haired Nord who looks _suspiciously _like her begins to talk, but the innkeeper’s not having it.

“Out! Out! _Out!” _The innkeeper barks the orders.

Five minutes later, the cold bitterly howls around the group in the tiny town. Cadha wraps her arms around herself. Her mage robes help, but she’s nowhere near as equipped for a _blizzard _as she wants to be.

“Oblivion, Kara, c’mon, snap out of it,” Cadha hears Vex plead nearby. The woman refuses to let anyone else carry the weeping Dragonborn. Vex turns attention to the mysterious Breton and growls. “Make it stop!”

“I can’t. She can, but she has to go through the memory.” The Breton shrugs amicably. Cadha doesn’t care for him.

The thirty-eight-year-old woman flinches at the sound of a roar in the distance. The blizzard’s winds freeze the lot of the group, but for a moment it feels like even the snow storm retreats for the roars to grow in volume. Cadha squints through the snow and gawks at the sight of a dark shadow dipping through the white expanse of snow-flurries and frozen temperatures. She points, but the bosmer points it out first as he cries out, _“Dragon!”_

“Oh, boy, now we got the _dov _to deal with, this day keeps getting more and more fun…” The Breton cracks his neck and grins wickedly. His hands begin to glow with red light, of a magic Cadha can’t identify. The Breton looks over his shoulders and Cadha shudders at the man’s insatiable red irises leering at them all. “—How about _you run _and I buy time, eh? If Kara dies, dragons will be the least of your worries, _trust_ me.”

When the second roar comes, the decision is made. The same Nord from before, the one with ginger-hair too unkempt to not match her own, calls out, “Let’s go!”

The Breton laughs when the first dragon dives through the snow and exhales a blast of frost over the buildings in a shout of, _“Fo krah diin!” _

A wall of ice surges across the buildings. Cadha yells in surprise and terror as icy spikes impale the roof and walls of one half of the inn. Screams begin to erupt inside the very place they were just kicked out of; Cadha’s eyes widen and any composure she usually maintains melts as the ginger-haired woman’s hands begin to shake. It doesn’t register to her that the others have started running; by the time her mind snaps back to focus she sees the buildings, the ice, and a dark shape breathe frozen gales overhead. She ducks out of a second dragon’s stream of, _“Fo!” _

_There’s two. Talos help me. Talos protect me. Talos, Talos, Talos. _Cadha’s mind becomes a blank as she staggers through the snow away from the buildings. She stumbles multiple times in the rising frenzy of panic. She’s experienced terror before, but nothing—besides the seven-foot Daedric Prince, perhaps—strikes the same amount of fear in her gut. Her entire body feels like it is built of ice and nausea as she struggles to push against winds and wanders aimlessly through the snow. She doesn’t stop until the sounds of dragons shouting fades in the ambience of the blizzard’s gut-wrenching winds. She feels her own snot freeze at the base of her nose and she holds a gloved hand up over her eyes to try and buffer between the snow and her line of sight. It doesn’t help.

When she sees the entrance to a cave, among shapes that vaguely remind her of _trees, _Cadha takes it. She throws herself into the darkness and curls up in a shaking ball of frost, pain, and fear. Her jaw chatters and her mind struggles to think. It doesn’t dawn on her she has a bag on her person; she doesn’t register the fact she picked up a pack at all until the woman finishes conjuring a tiny flame atronach and using the heat off its body for warmth. When she can finally think, Cadha stares at the bag she holds.

It’s one of the Thieves Guild’s bags. She doesn’t remember which member, or when she picked it up. The entire experience being kicked out of an inn after conjuring a _Daedric Prince _rattles her memory. She slowly picks through its contents: there’s a set of glass arrowheads, two small red potions Cadha suspects are hand-brewed, bandages, local plants obtained from foraging across Winterhold and Eastmarch, and… a pouch of coin. Cadha counts out twenty-three gold pieces. If she were at a market, it would be enough for a decent dagger or short sword, but she isn’t at a market and no vendors are around. She’s without weapons. Her only source of heat is her flame atronach, which requires frequent re-summoning. She spends the night shivering and shaking in the cave.

When morning comes, Cadha is roused from her sleep by the sound of a large crash. She snaps upright and shudders. She’s weak, but her magicka has regenerated, and she knows her feet can run fast and far if an enemy’s threatening the safety of the cave. Cadha tentatively inches to the mouth of the cave. She looks out and stares in surprise at a cloudy sky overhead; the blizzard is gone and snow doesn’t fall despite the overcast. Cadha feels chills run down her spine at the sound of pained growls and thrashing.

_Something’s there. This is a bad idea. This is a very bad idea. _The woman scolds herself and her blasted curiosity. She needs to know, though, because handling a near-death sabre cat is easier than a pack of mammoths being babysat by giants. The half-Nord fights the cold nipping at her body; she slowly pushes through the soft snow and peeks through trees. Her eyes widen at the sight of a long, _large _creature.

A creature with wings.

A creature with wings, open wounds, and a serpentine jaw aimed at her.

Specifically, and Cadha regrets ever going outside the cave, a _dragon. _

Her blue eyes widen and her mouth hangs open in shock. She stares at the creature. The dragon stares back and growls lowly at her. When it doesn’t immediately attack, Cadha thanks the Nine and catches her breath. She slowly steps out of the trees and holds up her palms. “Not—Not here—To—To Hurt you.” The woman mumbles.

_“Vobalaan joor dii krii grah.”_ The dragon growls slowly. _“Mey rii.”_

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t know what that means,” Cadha blurts out. Her mind remains a blank of shock and worry and _fear_ fifteen-yards out from the dragon.

But it lets her stride closer. As she does, she sees why: the dragon is grievously injured, and a catastrophic, sudden landing appears to have embedded part of massive tree into its body. The long, serpentine creature breaths strangely, likely from pain, and the wheezing becomes audible when Cadha comes within five yards of it. It’s a terrible idea and she continues to chide herself for going through with it in the first place, but part of her brain is bewildered and in awe at what could possibly harm a dragon so badly, and at the dragon itself.

It’s long and slender in its stature. It’s scales are not as bumpy as she’s heard other dragons can be, though admittedly much of what Cadha knows comes from tales passed around fires late at night. The dragon has long fins stretched mid-back down to its tail, and its entire body is a beautiful, faded blue-gray. Besides the mess of the dragon’s body impaled into tree branches, Cadha catches sight of great cleave wounds running up and down the creature’s form. She grimaces.

“Do you speak a common tongue?” Cadha keeps her hands up as she asks. Her blue eyes dim. If she makes it out of East March or Winterhold or _wherever _she is now alive, she will never live down the events of the past twenty-four hours. _Who asks a dragon if it speaks common tongue? _

“…Yes, _joor, _for _dov _are trained in speech.” The dragon answers her question.

Cadha shuts up. She sputters and gestures weakly at the tree. “..You need—Help?”

“Never from a _landwalker_, from _joorre _like yourself! _Pahlok mey, _you tempt my _nah. _Fury!” The dragon hisses through its teeth, dozens of long, serrated incisors looking ready to tear through flesh at a moments notice.

“You need help.” The half-Nord mumbles. Her hands shake as she goes to her bag. Something about the blood—It resonates with seeing everyone she knew be carelessly slaughtered by the Thieves Guild in recent days. Her anger over the loss of life remains and she makes a solemn vow to fight the bastards one day and make each of them pay, with a _possible_ exception to the other ginger-haired Nord. She despises the extreme measures of violence. She _hates _the blood, just the scent of it gives her stomach unsettling feelings.

Though the dragon rattles off something in its own tongue, Cadha ignores it. She pulls the two red potions from her bag and frowns at them. She hadn’t given it much thought, but her wrists still _hurt _and part of her wants to use one of them on _herself. _Another part of her knows it is better to keep a potion in case something worse happens later on, like a broken ankle or gangrene setting in. Cadha shoves a potion back into the stolen pack. She uncorks the other and turns to the dragon.

“—Can I try something?” The mage’s eyes narrow. “Dragon.”

_“Sahrotaar!”_ The dragon corrects her with a hiss. _“Zu’u Sahrotaar!”_

“I’m going to dump some of this on you. I think it will help the open lacerations. I don’t actually know, so if it doesn’t—” Cadha takes a moment to position herself where she thinks the dragon can’t snap its jaws at her if things go horrible wrong. She feels the dragon’s eyes on her regardless. The woman holds the vial of red liquid over one gaping wound and gently pours it out across the injury.

The dragon throws its head back and bellows in pain. The liquid seeps through the coagulated blood and to Cadha’s amazement, the flesh starts to bend. It doesn’t heal everything _perfectly, _and the new flesh doesn’t have scales, but Cadha remains impressed regardless. She exhales sharply and glances at the dragon. It growls loudly at her but doesn’t attempt to strike or recoil. The woman repeats the action for the other injuries, save the imbedded tree branches. When she runs out of potion, she shoves the empty glass vial into her bag and steps back.

She frowns. “Better?”

“…_Zofaas joor. Onikaan ni ov dovah._ You should not trust a _dov_.”

“A thank you would be nice.” Cadha blinks. She throws her hands up and backs away from the dragon. “Not that—It’s necessary—”

“I do not give _thanks _to those of the _gol. _You walk this earth—I am of _lok, _sky. You are not worthy of _thanks._” Sahrotaar, if Cadha follows anything he says correctly, is an arrogant and vicious dragon without an ounce of gratitude. But if the dragon lets her live, she doesn’t give two shits about being thanked.

“—You still have a tree there.” Cadha points out after a moment. Her eyes dim. “In your… wings?”

“Remove it.” The dragon barks the order.

She stiffens. “Well.”

“Remove it or I will _burn _you to a crisp, _gol joor._” Sahrotaar’s words are a promise, not a warning.

Cadha nervously steps forward. She hesitantly looks at the tree branches and examines the angles of entry. She isn’t a healer, and she knows nothing about dragon anatomy, but the woman reckons the tree being inside the dragon’s flesh is bad. She nervously fumbles with branches and begins to slowly pull the dragon’s wing membranes off the intact branches. The dragon roars in furious pain, but it doesn’t fight her attempts to free him. Cadha continues for well over an hour; all thoughts of her cave are gone by the time she finishes prying the wing off the tree and ridding it with as many smaller, broken twigs and offshoots as she can.

She falls backward into snow and exhales. “—Okay. Okay. How’s that?”

“Less… pain.” Sahrotaar spews slowly. Cadha grimaces and holds a hand over her mouth when the dragon snaps the wing open and tests it. His beady eyes return to her and she flinches until he says. “—Acceptable.”

“Thank Talos.” Cadha mumbles and falls backward into the snow.

“How _ironic.”_ It’s a voice Cadha doesn’t know or wish to know, because it comes too close and too fast for her to react beyond snapping upright and staring at a tall man as he emerges from the trees. Sunlight reflects off a golden mask strapped to his face, concealing most of his head.

“Who are...” Cadha stares.

She’s never seen a man like him before.

He’s very tall. Taller than her, even surpassing her six feet by several inches at the _least. _What exposed skin she finds is a wretched pale hue with dark, almost _green _veins. She sees shaggy black hair fall down the back of the man’s head; it’s longer than most and stops at his shoulders in an ornate, ceremonial-like clasp. His attire is unnerving; he wears many robes with the strangest patterns of eyes, of tendrils, and of scripts she doesn’t recognize embroidered and printed across the fabric. At his waist is a scabbard holding a sword with a hilt and guard that doesn’t appear _natural. _

Likewise, most of the man doesn’t seem _natural. _Cadha finds the longer she stares the more little things become _off _about his appearance. His height feels exaggerated or over the top, his hair might be a dark brown opposed to black, and at times she swears the tentacles on his robes shift and move under the light. She’s not offered a hand up or regarded with any courtesy, simply given a stare by the masked man and ordered up with a, “_Rise_.”

“Who are you?” The mage asks softly.

“Sahrotaar. You live.” The man ignores her and barks out the words to the dragon. He strides past her once she gets on her feet.

“It was an _et’Ada, _Miraak.” The dragon whispers hoarsely. Sahrotaar lowers his head to the ground and bows before the man. “A Prince of magnifying proportions. _Zoor suleyk. _Legendary power.”

“Who is this woman?” Miraak speaks calmly. “What is her life worth?”

“_Niid_, _Miraak._ _Krii mey joor?_” The dragon croons softly.

Cadha’s face pales. She doesn’t have to speak the language of _dov _to register the predatory tone in Sahrotaar’s rumbles. She backs away and swallows. Conjuration magic crackles at her fingertips as she struggles to think of _what _could possibly take down a strange masked man and his dragon.

“—It is useless.” Miraak speaks to _her _directly with the hint of amusement in his voice. It’s not one of mirth, but of an ego shining through. “You face power beyond what your mind fathoms, mer.”

“—Right now—I don’t know _what _my mind fathoms—” Cadha swallows. She tries to calm, to take deep breaths, but when the masked man stops and turns to her she freezes in panic. “—Don’t kill me.”

“I am tempted.” Miraak plays a game with his words. She doesn’t realize he approaches her until he’s in front of her, peering down behind the strange gold mask. She stares blankly at him. The man chuckles behind the mask. “So… fearful. _Zofaas._”

“My name is Cadha.” The mage forces the words out. She inhales deeply.

“Cadha… a Nordic name. You are a _Nord?” _The man reaches up to his mask.

She nods slowly. “Half-Nord. Half-Altmer.”

“Look at me, _Half-Nord, Half-Elf. _See the eyes owned by another,” Miraak’s words cut through Cadha and she stiffens and stares as the man pulls off his mask. “Remember the name. _Miraak. _One day all of Tamriel will speak it and shudder.”

His eyes bewilder her. They look bloodshot, but where small red lines should be is nothing more than inky black, tiny tendrils beneath the man’s skin and across his eyeballs. His irises are a murky green, almost dark enough to be black. He’s surprisingly clean-shaven, but ancient scars of dark-green tissue riddle his face and mar his sharp jawline. His lips don’t smile, but his eyes convey a thousand stories in their stare alone. Part of Cadha knows she should be terrified, that this strange masked man is of a terrible power, but her mind is left blank by stupor his gaze induces in her.

“…Miraak.” She breathes the name.

It does something to the man, because he pauses. His gaze deepens in intensity. His hands fall on her shoulders and she stiffens in his grasp. The gloved hands feel heavy on her body and she stills. It dawns on her what she’s done in saying the name so longingly. Her heart thuds in her ears. She finds a seed of satisfaction in observing how the man’s breath hitches. For a moment, neither say anything.

_“…Dovahkiin _are not easily tempted,” The man growls and releases her. “Sahrotaar! You were injured, _mey dov. _Did this woman heal you?”

“Yes, Miraak.” The dragon’s voice oozes like sludge rolling forward.

“Tch.” The man dons his mask and keeps his gaze averted, even when he snaps at her. “Woman! What reason do I have to let you live?”

“—You’re injured,” Miraak’s words go right over Cadha’s head. Her blue eyes focus on something else: a lone arrow sticking out of his back, passing through robes yet providing a stain deep enough to mark a hit. “I can—”

Miraak reaches back, grabs the arrow, and tears it out. The arrow snaps in two before it can gouge itself free of flesh. The man snorts and crushes it in one gloved hand. “_Beyn, _the landwalkers of today _dare_ think this can bring a _dovahkiin _down?”

“You _asinine _man!” Cadha’s fists clench. She grits her teeth and regrets it a moment later, but the spiel has been started and she is stubborn. She jabs a finger at him and snaps. “That’s made of—It’s _Ebony! _You broke it off _in your flesh! _Ebony arrows are made to _dig _into your skin, your—!_” _

_“Dii slen los niid sahlo_.” Miraak hisses. A hand glows a murky, tainted gold, and he applies restoration magic to the wound. The man looks at her beyond the mask and Cadha regrets saying anything; she can sense the animosity that bubbles beneath the man’s skin.

“You just—You healed the flesh on top. It’s buried there now. It’s…”

“Dare speak back to _Miraak? Los aus hin paar?_” Sahrotaar’s body rises and he slithers in his steps to the two. Miraak puts a hand on the dragon’s neck and stills him, but the serpentine dragon hisses. _“Miraak, daar joor al hin kah?_ I will rip her in two! _Du_ _pahlok joor!”_

“_Drem, _Sahrotaar. Do not feed where you walk.” Miraak hushes the dragon. “We will find you _joor slen _a later time.”

_Joor slen? _Cadha wonders if the phrase translates to flesh of man or mer based on the context used, but beyond that the words go over her head. She swallows but remains still.

“What of the others, Miraak?” Sahrotaar’s throat rumbles as Miraak climbs unto the dragon’s back.

“Krosulhah and Relonikiv seek out the _zaam mey tiid_’s body in the rubble. Kruziikel patrols the _lok,_” Miraak answers the dragon. His masked face turns back to Cadha and he falls quiet a long moment. When he speaks again, his tone is sharp and orderly. “Woman. I spare your life here today. Consider Sahrotaar’s debt repaid.”

“My name is _Cadha, _Miraak,” the mage states. Her brows furrow. “I didn’t do it to have—To make your _dragon _owe me anything! I just—I didn’t want it to _die!” _She sputters and flushes pink when the man and dragon alike laugh at her. Sahrotaar’s laughter is cruel and insidious. Miraak’s laugh contains an ego she’s begun to despise; it sounds so _condescending _the woman feels her face heat up until her cheeks are an overwhelmed, humiliated red. “What’s funny about that?”

“_Dov _do not die unless another _dov _kills them, woman.” The masked man chuckles and waves her off. “Now be gone. Before Sahrotaar’s appetite returns.”

When Cadha doesn’t budge, partially out of fear of the serpentine beast, and partially out of irritation at Miraak’s behavior, Miraak takes initiative to resolve the problem.

“_Gol hah, _walk.” The man has no qualms shouting her into submission.

Cadha can’t protest or scream in surprise when she loses control of her body. She watches herself as she turns and begins to walk away, trudging aimlessly through the snow. Behind her, great wings flap. Sahrotaar’s roar fades in the distance. She continues walking. The power of the man’s shout lingers for an hour before she regains control of herself; Cadha’s aching legs protest but she continues in the direction Miraak initially sent her off into. Snow doesn’t fall but she needs to move and find her way out of the wilderness before it _does _start falling again. As the day rolls by, she puts together a little camp in a dip between trees. She conjures a fire atronach to help get a fire going; it makes the night less insufferable.

Over the course of the next three weeks, the wilderness becomes all Cadha knows. Her means of navigating become useless when snowstorms start rolling in, an irritating feature of Skyrim’s long winters. Though she has her magic, food remains difficult and she feels part of herself waste away in spite the plentiful snowberries Cadha makes herself eat. She lacks in protein; she needs meat, or _something _with more sustenance. Her energy wanes; she finds days drag on and work takes twice as long. The conjurer begins to summon frost atronachs to assist in lugging her around, because her magicka stores remain at a constant even when the rest of her body struggles to keep up.

During a terribly cold afternoon, when snow falls lightly and gales of wind chill her to the bone, the woman is mid-climb up the face of a partially-frozen cliff when a roar makes her flinch. Her eyes widen and she squawks and looks behind her. To her horror, the noise is precisely what she fears: not wolves, nor bears, nor trolls, but the great, dark shadow of a massive _dragon. _Cadha locks eyes with a terrifyingly large dragon, one with sleek dark scales and long horns protruding from the top of its head. The dragon’s wing membranes appear a murky golden-brown in the light, and its gaze is solely on _her. _She sputters and looks to the ground, judging the distance between the ground and her current position on the cliff. She winces at the realization of a twenty-foot fall, but the dragon’s impending arrival makes her throw caution to the window. She conjures a frost atronach to catch her on the ground below, then tosses herself from the cliff as the dragon rears back and howls at her.

The dragon’s claws and talons crash unto the cliff face just as Cadha falls. She cries out in pain when the frost atronach grabs her; the momentum still injures her and her body hurts like no tomorrow. She mentally orders the summon to take off running, but it doesn’t get more than a few dozen yards before the roar from the air resounds and _another _dragon topples to the ground in front of her. This dragon is a smaller one, with smooth, washed-out blue scales and a serpentine head shape that seems oddly familiar. Cadha shrieks when the dragon opens its mouth and aims a blast of fire at her atronach, _“Yol!” _

She holds her arms up to protect herself. Heat whips her sleeves and burns part of her mage robes off. She howls in pain when her atronach dispels and promptly drops her to the ground. Her eyes fill with tears and she grimaces and looks up in the snow as one of the dragons approaches. Her eyes meet the gaze of _Sahrotaar, _and she stares in horror.

_“Daar los faal gein.”_ Sahrotaar hisses. _“Daar vahdin._”

Behind her some yards away, the first dragon lands and shakes off its wings. The dark-scaled dragon growls softly, “_Fin joor? Ek rahney?” _

_“Kruziikrel,_ _dahmaan Miraak rot.” _Sahrotaar breathes. It strides to Cadha’s burnt, crumpled form, and grabs hold of her with one foot. She shrieks and begins to curse and pounds its legs, but the dragon’s grip is firm. Cadha screams loudly when the grip tightens. The dragon leaps into the air.

If she’s to die, she doesn’t want to plummet to her death, or be tossed back and forth between dragons like a _toy. _Cadha’s tears streak off her face; she ceases her struggles once the serpentine dragon reaches great heights in the sky. Her body shakes in fear and the cold. She clenches her eyes shut and begs Talos for mercy. Sahrotaar and the second dragon—Kruziikrel—fly across the wild lands for a long time. Cadha doesn’t dare look; she finds her stomach flip-flops nervously and the thirty-eight-year-old woman’s head to grow light and dizzy from thin air. She’s developing a new fear of heights, that much is _certain _to her.

She’s deposited on the ground of a cave entrance hours later. The two dragons land and growl loudly. Cadha winces and looks up at them. She shudders at the bloodthirst in their gazes, the _want _to devour, dominate, and destroy. _Dragons are truly wicked, vile creatures._

Two more dragons greet her when she turns to look in the cave. Cadha’s face drains of color. She shakes and stares at the _dov _in horror. One of the dragons appears older, if she can safely go off the faded aqua-blue wing membranes and washed-out, green-tinted scales. The elder dragon has faint scars and scales missing in tiny patches across its body. It’s back is covered in fins much like Sahrotaar’s, but it has a more refined jaw like Kruziikrel and spikes running the length of its back _and_ tail. The fourth dragon is ridiculously tiny in comparison to the three. It’s form is nothing like Sahrotaar’s body; the fourth dragon has layers upon layers of thick, rigid scales in vivid brown hues. It has light gray-brown wing membranes, endless spikes protruding down its back, and it has a wicked spade-like protrusion at the end of its tail that looks ready to cave an unfortunate guard’s head in at a moments notice.

“Krosulhah. Relonikiv.” Sahrotaar greets its compatriots.

Cadha wants to faint.

The two dragons of the cave growl in greeting. The older one flicks its tail impatiently at Cadha. “Come!”

“Do as Relonikiv says.” Sahrotaar’s throat rumbles in warning.

Cadha flinches, but nods. The ginger-haired woman sucks in a deep breath but she fails to calm herself. Her hands tremble as she follows the large dragon into the depths of the darkness. She quickly assesses her magicka stores and finds they are half-full, slowly regenerating spite of her ruined mage robes. Cadha wraps her arms around herself and shivers from the cold. Her eyes widen when she comes upon a great fire built using full-length trees crushed in half by powerful jaws.

Lying on the ground, breathing heavily, is Miraak.

Cadha stares. She shifts her blue gaze from the man to the fire to the dragon called Relonikiv and back once more to Miraak. Her mouth opens to speak but Relonikiv’s growl makes her hesitate to ask questions. She slowly approaches Miraak and, at his side, jabs hims gently with her boot. He groans in pain.

_He’s hurt? _Cadha bites her lip. She’s beginning to understand; when she kneels next to the arrogant asshole, she sees his fists clench and unclench uncontrollably. She slowly reaches for his mask and unclasps it from his face. His eyes are shut, beads of sweat roll off his forehead, and his teeth grate against each other. He looks miserable, almost feverish, and Cadha confirms the suspicion by putting a hand on his forehead. She reels her hand back; he feels like he’s burning up. The woman snaps her head at Relonikiv and asks quietly, “You want me to _help _him?”

When the dragon doesn’t respond, she stands. She needs to be more assertive with the dragons, because they don’t take anything she does or says seriously. She inhales deeply and turns to Relonikiv. She doesn’t say anything at first, merely waits until the dragon’s gaze is locked on her own. Cadha stiffens from the unnerving leer the dragon gives; she takes one tentative step toward the dragon. Then—another. Relonikiv cocks its head to one side and eyes her carefully as she approaches. “The _joor _wishes to speak?”

“—You want me to help him? I need help.” Cadha struggles to keep her voice from cracking. She grits her teeth and clenches her eyes shut. If she can’t see them, maybe they can’t see her fear. “—I need—I need _ingredients. _Herbs. Okay?”

“A landwalker gives _order _to the _lok?_” Relonikiv’s voice seeps across her figure. She shudders. The dragon cackles.

Cadha shakes her head. “No, no—Not—Not orders! Just—_Asking _for help! Okay?”

“What does the landwalker desire?” Sahrotaar’s voice cuts in as the serpentine dragon slithers forward to the two.

Relonikiv’s laugh starts again. “—She wants _assistance._”

“Weak.” Sahrotaar growls.

Cadha grits her teeth. “I _know, _that’s—That’s why I’m asking _you—_You for help! You’re—You called it _lok?_” The word feels dangerous in her mouth, like mere mispronounciation of it might cause her to keel over and die. Cadha swallows her nerves and wrings her wrists nervously. “—I need help from creatures of… the _lok. _From the _lok. _Please. I need help saving him! _Miraak!” _She gestures at the unconscious man.

“What does the _joor _want?” Sahrotaar continues striding forward until he can safely circle Cadha’s form like a predator does its prey. “What does the _joor _need?”

“Bear claws?” Cadha sputters out weakly. She shivers and trembles under the gaze of not one but two hungry dragons. “Bear claws! Bear claws, bring me bear claws! And—And mountain flowers—The blue ones—If you can find any in winter—And—giant’s toes?”

She’s not an alchemist for good reason. Cadha struggles to remember the ingredients for red potions, but she continues rattling off a list of items until the two dragons grow tired of her words and leave. She hopes they set off to bring her what she requests, because she struggles to fathom any way in which she can snap a man out of feverish delirium otherwise. Speaking of Miraak, Cadha returns to the man’s side. She eyes his form and swallows nervously. _What could put you in this state? You talk with dragons! You shout! You’re a Dragonborn, aren’t you?_

She knows she must do it eventually, but she finds her cheeks flush furiously when she begins to undress him. She takes the sword off him first, and sets the strange, tentacle-rattled scabbard its in to the side. Just touching the object gives her chills. Cadha shudders. She returns to Miraak, and hesitantly touches his face. He moans in pain. She can’t tell if he’s actually unconscious or merely in a mental haze, so Cadha quickly tells him her plan of action in event he suddenly comes to. Maybe he won’t attack her instantly and clobber her half-to-death.

“You’re injured, Miraak,” the woman says firmly. “I need to undress you to find the injury and… fix it? Don’t—Don’t shout me to death if you stir. _Please.”_

She takes off his outer robe first, wrestling with his convulsing limbs to get the damn material off without ripping or tearing anything. Cadha folds the decorative garment neatly and puts it to the side. She’s relieved to see he wears breeches beneath, along with a shirt beneath a lighter vestment. Cadha feels sweat seep through the fabric as she struggles to get the man’s shirt untangled. She nearly reaches for his sword to cut the fabric off, but she restrains her growing frustration. When her hands brush the man’s left shoulder, he moans in pain. Cadha draws her hands back but gawks at blood staining her skin. She narrows her eyes. _It couldn’t be the arrowhead from before, could it?_

It is, that much she’s certain. By the time Cadha rolls the man unto his stomach and gets his shirts off, her hands are a mess of sweat, pus, and blood. The location she assumes to be the arrowhead’s original point of entry, his mid-back, is heavily inflamed, swollen, and it _reeks. _Cadha wants to retch. She doesn’t know how long the injury’s been so _bad, _but clearly Miraak hasn’t given it too much thought, which then begs the question: how much sensation can he feel? Was he aware of how bad the injury was getting? Why didn’t he do something about it?

_And still getting worse. If it’s in there—I hope his restoration magic didn’t just… mend the flesh to the arrowhead. I’ll have to cut it out. _She gags at the thought.

One other thing on the man’s body draws her eye. It’s the ring of _black _around his neck, one that pulsates and brews beneath the surface of his skin. When Cadha prods it gently with a finger, she recoils in horror at the ring wriggling and squirming violently beneath Miraak’s skin. The woman catches her breath and returns her focus to the more prominent injury on the man’s back.

By this point, the two dragons have returned, and the fact two had to go out at all intrigues the remaining two to the point all four creep into the cave. Cadha suddenly looks up and comes face-to-face with entire bushes of plants, crushed bear limbs, and a myriad of a shitshow of other ingredients. Dragon’s don’t go through the effort of cleaning and preparing them, she finds, they merely _find _and _bring. _Sahrotaar’s beady gaze watches her every move as she slowly grinds bear claws with snow-encrusted mountain flowers. She hears one dragon hiss when she takes the gross concoction and ‘feeds’ it to Miraak once the man’s back on his back; she manually makes the man open his mouth, chew, and then she encourages swallowing with gentle hand movements along his throat and mandible. The dragons are not impressed.

Cadha lays Miraak back on his chest and swallows. She turns to the dragons and states. “Can you bring me a chunk of fresh snow?”

The dragon she believes is Relonikiv growls but saunters away. It returns with an entire block of snow and drops it carelessly on the ground. Cadha uses the thinnest of Miraak’s garments to wrap a chunk of snow in. She unsheathes Miraak’s sword—the action makes all four dragons hiss—and tucks the open scabbard beneath the wrapped snow. It isn’t the most feasible work, but she conjures a flame atronach to warm the snow until it dribbles through the garment into the scabbard. The material acts as a crude “strainer” for picking out larger particles from the snow. When she’s strained enough water to fill the scabbard to its lip, she instructs her atronach to heat the metal scabbard to the point the water boils.

“He’s going to scream. I have to cut it out anyways.” Cadha tells the four dragons.

“Miraak does not _scream, joor._” Sahrotaar breathes.

“He’s going to scream,” is all she repeats to the four. “A lot.”

She uses some of the boiled water to sanitize the sword. She cuts off a piece of her own garments, runs water through it, then clenches teeth through the pain of handling hot fabric and begins to clear the inflamed area. Miraak’s pained groans resume. One of the dragon snorts while another chortles quietly to the side. Cadha grimaces at the smell; she ignores the bile rising in her throat and carefully presses on the injury in hopes of popping the arrowhead out. While pus emerges and Miraak _shakes _and moans, Cadha doesn’t procure any arrowhead. She can feel it beneath the surface, and it dawns on her she really _will _have to cut it out.

“Talos help me.” Cadha whispers to the Divine. Her hands tremble holding Miraak’s sword, but she douses it in hot water. She lets the blade cool. The second she begins to cut into the man’s back, Miraak’s groans become ragged screeches and screams of pain. The man sounds inhumane as she shoves her body weight on him and shouts back at the dragons to help, “Keep him _down!” _

This time Sahrotaar and Relonikiv assist her in pinning the man. Cadha fights nausea as Miraak's struggles become thrashing. Cadha watches blood spew as she feels out the arrowhead in the flesh and cuts it free. She throws Miraak’s sword to one side, reels backward, and topples to the ground. Her breathing is just as ragged; sweat falls off her brows and she pants heavily and looks at the gore-riddled arrowhead in her hand. Just as suspected—The ebony arrowhead’s surface melds with restored flesh of weeks prior. Cadha throws it to the far edge of the cave. At Miraak’s pained moans and inaudible grunting, she returns to his side and begins to apply pressure to the gushing wound.

The blood doesn’t stop.

“Talos, this—This isn’t good—Did I cut too much? I’m not a _healer!” _She sputters and stares in horror at the pools of crimson pouring out the man’s body. Her mind jumps to her bag and her bloody hands rummage through the contents in search of her last and only health potion. It was one of the two she found in the pack originally. She uncaps it, shoves part of her robes into the wound to soak up blood, and Cadha pours the potion directly into the wound. It goes into effect quickly; she exhales in relief when the bleeding ceases and flesh begins to regenerate across the gaping hole left in Miraak’s back. She retrieves her only set of bandages from her bag and wraps the injury the best she can.

His breathing steadies slowly over the next couple hours. Cadha is a wreck of nerves, sweat, and Miraak’s dry blood. She keeps away from him and his dragons. Her mind can’t relax with four dragons constantly growling her direction or mumbling things in their tongue, especially when the phrase _joor slen _comes up.

When Miraak stirs, his reaction isn’t what she expects. His face tells years of stories in the cautious, wary expression that emerges. Cadha remains far, far across on the other side of the cave. She watches him sit up and she hears him curse long strings of words in the dragon tongue. The dragons of the cave respond in snarls, cackles, and sentences she can’t understand. When his head snaps in her direction, she slowly stands. Her blue eyes lock with his dark, murky green. He grabs his mask and dons it before marching to her.

She can’t look away when he stops several feet from her. It’s not the gleaming gold mask that keeps her still, but the sudden awareness that the man’s torso is bare. In the rush earlier, Cadha didn’t linger on the thoughts, but now that she can think she finds he’s a very appealing man to look at. He’s muscular, defined, and a long, beautiful tattoo covers his skin from his abdomen stretching up to his pectoral muscles. She exhales silently and tries to focus on other things. Her eyes trail to the bandages wrapping crudely around his neck, left torso, and shoulder.

She swallows. “Are you _okay?_”

“Woman,” the man’s frustration seeps out. Cadha stares as Miraak steps closer. His voice dips into a low tone, “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” The conjurer sputters. “For what?”

“_Fin kiin dovahkiin ni dein vaat.” _Miraak hisses. “The First Dragonborn does _not _keep debts!”

“I wasn’t—Planning on making you—In debt?” Cadha blinks slowly at the notion. She squints. The masked man, the—he really called himself the first Dragonborn, as if anyone could be that old—Dragonborn, he’s begun to confuse her more than anything else.

The masked man growls in disapproval at her words. “Decide what you want, woman.”

She catches the limp in his gait. He’s still in pain. She pauses, ignores his words, and looks around for leftover mountain flowers and bear claws. To her surprise, enough of the ingredients are left for her to grind them together in a gross paste. By the time she’s done, one of the dragons—she can’t remember the name, maybe Krosulhah—the tiniest of the four, eyes her every move with an intense curiosity. Cadha grimaces internally; she fights off her fear of the dragons jaws and summons the courage to approach Miraak. The man’s donned his shirts and robes once more; he sits by the flames and doesn’t acknowledge her until she leans down and taps his shoulder.

He growls and makes to unsheathe his sword. Cadha gawks and stumbles backward. She hears the dragons laugh when she falls on her rear on the cave floor. She looks up at Miraak, the man now standing, and eyes him carefully. “—You should eat this.”

“…What is it?” He’s bemused by her words, and not in a kind way. He doesn’t take her words seriously, just like the dragons at his side.

“…Bear claw and blue mountain flower.” Cadha inhales deeply and holds the paste out, presented on a scrap of her robes she cut in earlier hours. Her brows furrow. “It fortifies health?”

Miraak falls silent. He turns back to the fire and sits down. “I don’t need it.”

“You don’t _need _it, but it won’t hurt you to take it! Have you always been this stubborn?” Cadha continues to shove it at him. The man doesn’t budge. She finally gives up, crosses her arms, and decides to glare at him. “—I changed my mind.”

She’s visibly annoyed when the man ignores her. Her brow twitches. Cadha reaches for him again, but this time she reaches for his mask and tears it off. The man snaps at her and lurches to his feet but she’s already moving backward and holding it away.

“_I will cut you down,” _it’s a live threat, loud and dangerous. “Hand it over.”

“You owe me a debt,” the woman snaps. If the man’s going to be such a pain in the ass, she intends to be a pain in his ass. “Or do your words mean nothing, _First Dragonborn?_”

Her words get across, because Miraak’s teeth clench. But he doesn’t move. He’s a man of honor, to an extent, and the concept of debt must be deeply ingrained in him if he’s willing to restrain the bloodlust boiling inside. It’s a flaw she intends to capitalize on.

“_Tinvaak. _Speak.” The Dragonborn snaps. “What do you want?”

“I want you to,” Cadha picks her words very carefully, mindful of the circumstances surrounding the individual in front of her and his _four dragons. _“—treat me as your _equal, _Miraak. Make them treat me as your equal.”

The four dragons, notably Sahrotaar, begin to howl and cackle in the darkness of the cave. One look from Miraak silences them. The man’s eyes betray the scathing range of emotions that flicker through his head. Cadha’s not oblivious; she sees the irritation and apathy cycle in his eyes. She holds her own and gazes at him carefully when he strides to her and plucks the mask from her hands. He turns it over in his hands and states. “You are a _mey _to ask so much when you know little, woman. You want me to view you as _equal?_”

“I won’t repeat myself!” Cadha grits her teeth. She doesn’t like being snappy, or angry, or _mean, _much less _violent, _but she needs to get the point across. Given two of the dragons _kidnapped _her to take care of the asshole in front of her, Cadha doesn’t want to take chances with him or the dragons again.

“Sahrotaar!” Miraak calls the serpentine dragon forward. The dragon obediently strides and lowers its head to the ground. Miraak growls the words. “This woman—_Cadha—_She is my _equal._ _Thaarn ek pruzah!_”

_“Rek los aan vobalaan joor,”_ The dragon growls in protest_. “Hi meyz ek ronit? Daar slen?”_

The word _slen _makes Cadha’s hair stand up on end. She wants to shrink, but it’s impossible when ones six feet tall. She inhales quietly and backs away from Miraak and the dragon. “Don’t eat me. Please.”

Sahrotaar hisses. Its tail whips side-to-side. _“Rek los do faas. Vobalaan ronit! Vobalaan!”_

“_Nahlot!”_ Miraak’s shout is not one of his _voice, _but that of an order, a command, a warning wrapped into the single word. He dons his mask after he spits at the serpentine dragon. _“Rek los dii ronit._ Equal. _Zu’u koraav ek ol dii kiim. Fun faal dovah. Krosulhah. Kruziikrel. Relonikiv.”_

Though she understands near nothing the man says, Cadha believes she follows the names. She makes a mental note of all the ones she remembers so far. _Miraak… The masked man. Sahrotaar… Likes to laugh at me a lot. Relonikiv, Kruziikrel, Krosulhah… I think Relonikiv is old? I forgot the other two. Maybe I can ask him later? Miraak? _She swallows her nerves and tries to present herself tall and upright, far from the clearly rattled mess she is. When Miraak finally turns his attention back to her, she wants to jump ten feet out of her body and find a corner to avoid the world in.

“You know nothing about the _dovah _tongue. Tch.” Miraak growls under breath. “_Beyn, _for all you are, woman. _Cadha._”

Sahrotaar slithers off as the man returns to the side of the fire in the cave. The tree trunks burning have lasted hours into the day. Cadha holds back a yawn. She stares at Miraak’s back and frowns. A thought crosses her mind and she tentatively strides to his side. “Miraak.”

“_Do not say that name lightly,_” the Dragonborn warns in a whisper. “You want to be _ronit? _Equal? Take it as a warning.”

“What happens if I shout it out loud?” Cadha pauses.

Miraak laughs. “You will die, woman. Cadha. You cannot shout my kin’s tongue without our _sos, _our blood. Very few humans ever can without it. You will cough your lungs through your throat and drown in your blood. A waste of _laas. _Perhaps not.” He doesn’t give her so much a glance.

_Sos. Blood. _Cadha takes notes. She crosses her arms and opts to sit directly next to him. It dawns on her it is a foolish decision, because she’s gotten a grasp of how arrogant and condescending, he can be over the tiniest action, but she intends to press her luck as far as she can throw it. She doesn’t overlook how the man’s body stiffens and his breathing hitches when she looks at him and states. _“Miraak.” _

His reaction confirms her previous suspicions. She shakes her head and sighs.

“—So you’re the _First Dragonborn, _traveling around with a handful of winged, bloodthirsty minions, and you’re also a perverted bastard with no manners. That's my luck.” Cahda huffs. She extends her palms to the fire. The heat feels nice. It makes her relax—slightly—and the woman eventually exhales. “Talos, what’d I do to get in such a mess?”

“You can _leave._” The man’s voice is low and agitated.

“Not with my luck. You were too busy _dying _to notice, _First Dragonborn, _but your dragons hunted me down and hauled me here against my will.” Cadha decides to move further away from Miraak, a few feet around the fire. She draws her knees to her chest and sighs. “I don’t think I could ask for a better example of a living nightmare! First the _Thieves Guild, _then your dragons, then _you _and your dragons, and now… Even my robes are useless.” Her eyes water but she bites back the tears. She looks at the remnants of her mage robes. The apparel is useless now, the enchantments are lost, and it will be a long time before she can save up enough gold to buy a set of half-decent robes.

She buries her head in her knees and tucks every last feeling of despair into the bottom of her heart. She can’t afford to feel pessimistic about the world. She’s lived through worse. She’s lived through far, far worse, of sickly abominations and heinous treatment that haunts her dreams most of the time. She needs to keep it together, to stay strong, and to continue surviving until luck isn’t shit-side up. She got _so _close when she became part of the tiny group of thieves and rogues up in Winterhold! Right until the Thieves Guild came and slaughtered everyone under the impression they were all working with someone named _Karliah. _

She sees Miraak jolt upright and stand. The man backs from the flames. Cadha raises a brow and peers at the fire in confusion. Her eyes widen and she finds herself watching in horror as the beautiful, dancing orange flames become a putrid, noxious green. The acidic color entrances her and she finds she can’t pull herself away when the entire fire puts itself out and a wretched abyss begins to manifest where it once was. A great eye oozes from the darkness and opens; it blinks slowly and scans the room, bypassing Miraak and coming to settle on Cadha. She feels nausea overwhelm her body and bile rise in the back of her throat as tendrils of darkness begin to lurch out for her.

“Hermaeus Mora,” Miraak’s words make the darkness retract and the eye swivel back to the masked man.

“You… disappoint me. Miraak…” A voice as terrifying as Aetherius is heavenly reeks like the stench of rotting flesh in her nostrils, ears, and head. The voice doesn’t come from the wretched abyss; it _is _the wretched abyss and it permeates all space around it in the cave. As Cadha looks on, her eyes frozen in fear and awe, she witnesses inky appendages lurch forward and grab the masked man by the torso and throat.

Miraak’s scream of agony snaps her back to reality. She backs up, but the wretched abyss doesn’t appear to care for her. Cadha struggles to make sense of the horrible sight before her: the ring of black around Miraak’s neck, the one that pulsed and shuddered violently just beneath the surface of his skin, she stares transfixed to the spot as the dark ring bursts from Miraak’s neck. It’s identical in structure and thickness to the tendrils grappling the man. The limbs begin to strangle and asphyxiate the man without care.

“You thought I wouldn’t _notice—_” Hermaeus Mora’s voice is deadly.

_Hermaeus Mora. _A Daedric Prince. Cadha’s mind reels with shock. _What is a Dragonborn doing with a Daedric Prince? Does he have something to do with Kara? _

“—Your _games_ amuse me! You call yourself… _Dragonborn? _Do not forget _who _gave you refuge—” The grip on Miraak’s body tightens. “_Life! Life! _It was… the Watcher… I _intervened _on your behalf, Miraak! You repay me in _this? _Dancing around that _Daedra? _I gave you your _orders. _Where is the _zaam mey tiid?_”

“Wasn’t—With—” Miraak chokes and gasps, air failing him. His body goes limp and the darkness tosses him aside.

_“Find them!”_ The Daedric Prince is absolute. It is not anger but resolve that compels Mora’s voice, full of intent of what will come and what will happen upon failure.

Cadha’s beginning to understand. Miraak’s a prisoner of his own means. She doesn’t like him any more than she did before, but part of her can sympathize with his reality. He’s a caged animal; his soul must be indebted to the Daedric Prince to be so volatile earlier.

“And this… mortal,” the eye of the Daedric Prince, the Gardener of Men, turns to her suddenly. Cadha’s body trembles from a wave of fear overwhelming her. Hermaeus Mora’s voice draws out. _“Why _do you keep unnecessary life? Are my dragons not _enough _for you?”

Cadha shrieks and backs away when the darkness makes for her. It ensnares her flesh and wraps her like a long snake preparing to swallow pray. The grip tightens and tightens and tightens until she can scarcely breathe. Her body thrashes and writhes weakly against godly strength. She can’t keep herself from crying in terror at the Prince’s unwavering gaze and rotting presence. As the tendrils reel her into the abyss, the Prince halts at the sound of Miraak rising to his feet and stating, “—_Kul._”

“_Kul?” _Hermaeus Mora pauses to consider the word. “With this…?”

“Yes.” The Dragonborn snaps. “She’s… appropriate.”

“How long will it take?” The darkness drops Cadha to the ground. The eye’s fully focused on Miraak now, and heeds Cadha no attention as the conjurer crawls away to a shadow of the cavern and begs Hermaeus Mora doesn’t repeat the experience.

“Eight months.” Miraak growls.

“…That is… fortunate for her,” the Prince’s words are full of meaning Cadha doesn’t understand. Hermaeus Mora’s voice gurgles and slithers away as the eye dissipates and the darkness retreats. “—Very _well_… Do not forget your _duties, _Miraak. Your _orders… Your freedom comes at a price. _Bring the dragons soul to me.”

When the Daedric Prince’s aspect disappears, the fire suddenly bursts back to life. The friendly orange flames flicker and dance slowly around the cave. Cadha stays in the shadow, back pressed to the cave wall, face drained of color and mouth ajar in horror as she stares into the flames. She doesn’t register Miraak until the man’s standing next to her, looking back at the fire. His voice is unusually remorseful, perhaps the first and only time Cadha’s found an inch of regret in his tone, as he quietly states, “You should leave.”

“What was _that? _A Daedra? A _Daedric Prince? _Why do you know a Daedra?! You’re supposed to be _Dragonborn, _aren’t you?” Cadha asks, voice strained and weary.

“Hermaeus Mora. The Prince of Fate. Knowledge. Master of our souls.” Miraak says the words solemnly. “You wanted to be _equal? _A foolish wish. He will follow you wherever you go, if he does not kill you first, Cadha.”

_The ring on his neck really is… Like a manacle. _Cadha grits her teeth. It’s painful to think of. “—He _owns _your soul?”

“Correct.”

“All of you?! You? Your—Your dragons?” The conjurer sputters.

“—Yes.”

“…Talos help me.” Cadha mumbles softly. She wraps her arms around herself. “He was—He was about to kill me, wasn’t he? He grabbed me! He was going to pull me into that—That _place_.”

_“Apocrypha.”_ Miraak corrects her without pause.

“I don’t care what it’s called!” The conjurer begins to weep, loud and ugly tears falling down her face. “What a horrible creature! A Daedra to the end! Cruel! Vile!”

“You should… go. Before he sees through my lies. _Dii lo. _My deception.”

“Lies? What? What you said? _What did you say?”_ She looks up at him, eyes full of tears.

“_Kul. _Child. Descendant.” It is all the Dragonborn needs to say to explain.

Cadha recoils from him and staggers to her feet. “I am _not—_”

“Nor am I.” Miraak states sharply. The man’s form is tense and rigid. “It was… an excuse. To keep your… _weak flesh_ alive. _Do not_ think more of it. _Sahrotaar!”_ Miraak strides away and calls for the serpentine dragon. The dragon obediently crawls forward to his side and the Dragonborn puts a hand on its neck. He looks over his shoulder at Cadha, mask hiding any emotion in his eyes. “—You asked for _ronit. _To be equal. This is what your equal half faces.”

“I didn’t think,” the half-elf trembles. “—I didn’t realize you were—With _that thing! _A Daedra! Gods, Divines, the Nine,” she wipes her eyes and staggers to her feet. Her eyes widen in horror and she stares at Miraak’s back as he climbs unto Sahrotaar. “Do I—Do I owe you a _debt _now?”

“No.” Miraak grabs hold of Sahrotaar as the dragon turns away. Cadha is forced to run to catch up with the dragon as it saunters outside with Miraak on its back. Miraak utters a sharp, inaudible word to Sahrotaar and looks down at Cadha on the ground. She imagines his irritation, or aggravation, or frustration, or any one of many things that might hint at his displeasure dealing with her. When he talks, his voice is quiet and solemn once more. “Speak. Do not waste time.”

“Why don’t I owe you a debt? How does that make any sense?” Cadha blurts out the words. Her hands ball up into fists and she grits her teeth. “How does any of this make sense, Miraak?”

“You…” Miraak pauses. “…are _dii kiim _now. Equals do not hold each other in debts.”

_“Kiim?”_ Cadha stares.

Sahrotaar’s faint laughter does not go unnoticed. Miraak hisses at the dragon to quiet down, but the other three dragons looming in the area join in faint cackles and growls. The _First Dragonborn _turns his head away from Cadha. The answer is faint, yet the woman hears it clearly even as Sahrotaar unfurls its wings and prepares to launch into the air.

“—_Kiim_. You are _dii kiim. ‘Dii’_ for _mine _or _my,_” Miraak’s words linger as Sahrotaar bellows into the air and leaps for the sky. “'—_Kiim.' _For _wife.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's probably? 15-20 chapters left so we're a bit halfway  
getting there slowly whoo!!!!! 
> 
> thank u for reading i love you have a nice day


	35. turn us into the game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after a dream goes wrong, kara isn't in the best mood to return to riften. what the cistern contains is worse than anything she could have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a dark chapter  
warnings for:  
-character death  
-sad brynjolf  
-gore kinda? dead bodies are gross sorry  
-suicide / suicide note

_“Dragons were created to dominate, Horror-Devour-Blood.” _The words echo across an expanse of white.

She sees not herself, but a wyrm of white entangled around themself. The creature is young; they have yet to molt and come into the sheen of adult scales that encompasses the entire length of body. They are feeble, for their claws are small and struggle to wrangle more than the goats and small prey animals brought to them by their Blood family. It’s an unusual sight; she feels the memory press against the temples of her forehead, wherever she may be, and in doing so she understands the nature of the memory is wracked and strained. It is not something meant to be seen.

The dragon that speaks, the Blood-Father, is a cruel being of a black pelt and jagged thorns of spikes running down the length of his back. The power the Blood-Father emanates is a terrible thing. Even in something like a memory, she shudders in horror at the towering monstrosity before her, nothing short of a god.

The small wyrm, the child, the _hatchling_ holds up their head and chirps softly.

_“—It fits them. Look at their eyes, Destroyer-Devour-Master. They carry your bloodthirst. A taste for the flesh of others.”_ The voice is not one she knows of, but it is deep and full of admiration for Destroyer-Devour-Master. At the peak of the mountainous cliff, where the nest is a castle of bones enshrining the sole survivor of the clutch, a white dragon lands and folds his wings against his long, dizzying body.

_“Dragonkind does not care about heritage. Time will reveal if this one is worthy in voice... in Essence.”_ Destroyer-Devour-Master laughs and cackles at the notion.

But it can’t be _all _true, because she sees how the massive, dark drake before her keeps a firm watch on the hatchling. Dragons may not form family units, but for a moment the link is there between parent and child. It’s horrifying to see; there is nothing kind about the innate domination and bloodlust shared between two dragons.

“Time is… such an arbitrary concept, Sloan,” she snaps upright and finds the scene paused, with an Imperial man plopped in a chair right of her. The deep laugh lines on his face, the glowing white eyes, and the two-piece suit on his figure give him only one identify, and it is not one she wanted to find. He is the _Prince of Madness, _the fallen Hero of Kvatch, the former Grey Fox, the man who fought to shut the gates of Oblivion only to fall into Daedric darkness in the end. Prince Sheogorath offers a disgruntled frown and laces his hands together as his attention shifts to her. “What is it, really? A measure of _change_ going _forward? _The stability of Mundus? What is _time_ to you, on Earth?”

“I don’t know.” Kara’s voice is distant and disembodied. She feels small, surrounded by dragons that tower over her by tens of feet. She stands next to Sheogorath’s throne and exhales softly. “I don’t… I haven’t thought about what it means to be something on _Earth _in a long time.”

“You show no fear. Only… distaste! Yes, yes, distaste… Oh, is it _that_ disappointing to see me?” The Prince holds his head in his hands and moans in discomfort. The sound makes Kara wince. When she says nothing, the Prince holds his tongue in one hand and waves at the scene with the other.

_“First… they dominate the egg. Then—Their clutch. Look at the blood on their claws. Not a week old, and they claim seven souls.” _The white dragon steps forward and he reveals himself as a picture of familiarity. Lengths of long, golden whiskers and a jaw shaped closer to a beak, a tail that spirals wildly in length and coils, and eyes that shine ethereal silver—Kara sees them akin to Sahkriimir, much like their true draconic form, but the differences leave her staring, because the white dragon is _not _Sahkriimir. The great white dragon establishes that in gait, in tone, and in the sheer difference of size.

“What is this? Why are you showing me this?” Kara asks as the scene continues, when the small hatchling begins shrieking and sounding raspy cries of hunger.

Prince Sheogorath hums thoughtfully. He counts out seconds in common, in Daedric, and in Italian, specifically the Tuscan dialect, before the Daedra shrugs. He holds out a hand and the _Wabbajack_ staff manifests, called to his side by thought alone. The artifact is close enough for her to reach out and touch, but Kara doesn’t dare tempt the Daedra to pursue his darker side in one of her dreams. She narrows her gaze and waits for him to do or say _something. _Yet, the man does nothing but sit and watch.

_“Truly the firstborn of the firstborn. The haughtiness will go to their head once they learn. Why wait?”_ The white dragon continues.

_“Essence is the ultimate demonstration of power! Our voice—It commands, controls, it leads!”_ Destroyer-Devour-Master roars the words. _“They must hold their own.”_

_“They showed their strength.”_

_“On hatchlings. Not a true dragon, Storm-Tear-Eternity. Not a dragon come of age and voice,”_ Destroyer-Devour-Master flicks his tail and shoves the small hatchling forward. The hatchling continues in hungry wails, growing louder and louder as it sits and bellows with an appetite to match. The black dragon hisses and lowers his head to the ground. _“You eat too quickly? You will go without prey.”_

The hatchling snaps jaws at him, but the dragon brushes the small creature aside like one might swat a fly. The white dragon laughs. _“Cruel. You hunt. I…”_

_“—You cannot keep track of this one. They won’t live a day under your sight.”_

Kara frowns as the two dragons bicker back and forth. She points at the hatchling. “This is Sahkriimir, isn’t it? This is a memory of the past?”

“Untouched by madness.” Sheogorath breathes the words softly. “Their time with myself and me and all I am and are and can be fares them poorly. Their mind is susceptible to the _madness. _The self-sabotaging nature of our crown,” he jabs his thumb at his chest. It pains Kara’s heart to see the dim Amulet of Kings strung around Sheogorath’s neck. The Prince sighs loudly. “Do not believe all they say, Sloan—They do not know themself.”

“Don’t call me that!” The Dremora _snaps. _She grits her teeth. “That woman is dead. I’m Kara now.”

“Are you?” Sheogorath raises a brow. His stare unnerves her. He props himself up on the air and asks, “Are you succumbing to the madness of our crown, Sloan? This universe will be worse under _Kara._”

“No. _No. _I’m not. I’m accepting my circumstances. I died on Earth. That’s why I’m _Kara _now,” the woman growls. “Tell me why you’re here. It’s been a while since you and I talked.”

“Since you talked to who? Me? Myself? Sheogorath or the Grey Fox?”

“I don’t know how to answer that,” she admits. She crosses her arms and squints. “That’s irrelevant, anyways. Just answer me. Why are you here?”

Sheogorath _sighs _and stands. He taps the Wabbajack to the ground and the scene of the nest, the hatchling, and two monstrously divine dragons, wilts and withers away until only an expanse of white remains. “Don’t you think, Sloan, something _strange _is afoot here? Something is—Off—I’m up to something! _Me! _I’m up to no good.”

The Prince begins to pace vigorously up and down, left and right, walking in directions that don’t make sense to the Dremora’s mind. She winces when a headache begins to pound against the inside of her skull. Sheogorath pauses, leaps to the ground, and sides up to her. His white eyes hold less of a glow than she is accustomed to; if she had to describe it, she might go so far to say the Daedra looks _sad. _It aggravates and worries her. She flinches when Sheogorath takes her hands in his and squeezes them.

“I need you to _see _what I see! I need you to _know _what I know! But it’s hard when I—When we—When _me _wants to rip your head from your throat, Sloan! You don’t _understand _the piece you play on our game board! All us Daedra, vying back and forth, rolling dice and dueling for initiative, we might as well pop one off in honor of the madness you made me _inspire _in _me_. Get the picture?” Sheogorath releases one hand to effectively pull Kara out into the white realms of nothing. She follows, not by choice but compelled by a horrifying divine power in front of her.

“I can’t say I do.” The Dremora states curtly. She grimaces when Sheogorath sighs again.

“That’s why I’m me! You’re you! We aren’t _each other. _But I _need _you and me to see each other’s sights! What the eye sees is what the eye gets is what the mind understands! And your friend, the dragon, the forsaken and traitorous one, they don’t _see _and _get _and _understand _themself!” Sheogorath hisses and releases her. He slams the end of the Wabbajack into the white. A dull sound echoes. “_Madness begets madness. _Your friend follows _lies. _Your friend—” He grits his teeth and clenches both hands around his staff. “—Believes what is _not _believeable! Preposterous! Disgraceful!”

“Is this about their memories?” Kara pauses. She’s begun to pick up on what the Daedric Prince blabs about, in her own way.

Sheogorath throws his hands, the staff, and chunks of great white space into the air when he screams, “Yes! _Yes! _It’s about the _mind_, Sloan! Aetherius help me! Why can’t you read me like the fans of my blog? I’m an acclaimed travel blogger, Sloan, my following is _legendary._”

“Don’t get off track.” She strides up to him and shoves him lightly. “—What about their memories is _lies?_”

“_Too much,_” Sheogorath spits at her feet. “Too little. Enough. Just _enough _for my self and me and all I am to _twist _that knife in a little deeper, Sloan. You can’t trust them.”

“I can’t trust you, either.” The Dremora states flatly. “You going to tell me I can’t trust anyone but you?”

“—_No, _do not trust me! Don’t trust me, no, no, no, that’s… Don’t do that.” Sheogorath bops her head with the Wabbajack, turns, and walks away.

Kara has no choice but the follow. Her fists clench tightly and she eyes his back carefully. “—Why are you in one of my dreams, Sheogorath? Grey Fox? To inform me Sahkriimir has issues? I knew that. We all knew that. We all have _issues._”

“Their perception is _broken,”_ The Prince whispers. He dons a gray fox cowl; it makes him look strangely familiar, but Kara can’t think of the matter further as Sheogorath warns. “—See! See it for yourself! See what they won’t admit! What they _deny—"_

_“Horror-Devour-Blood._” Another scene begins to play out in front of the two. Within a perch that overlooks an ancient expanse of Tamriel, of _Skyrim, _the great white dragon lands.

Horror-Devour-Blood looks up; they are pleased by the white dragon’s arrival. Their tail sways with a festering anticipation. When Horror-Devour-Blood stands, Kara sees how the dragon has grown since the past memory: scars speck their hide, part of their mane is shorter than the rest from being torn out, and they rake razor-sharp claws and talons along the ground as the other dragon eyes them. The sound it makes against the stone is dreadful, but something else lingers in Horror-Devour-Blood’s presence; their gait is mortifying in ego alone, enough to make Kara want to step into the scene and strangle the dragon into sense.

But the great white dragon does not strangle her former dragon. The great white dragon stands tall and proud, smug as a dragon can be yet with a reluctance that holds him back from approaching.

_“You called me here.”_ The great white dragon speaks sharply_. “Are you that much a fool?”_

_“Fools do not rise as I have.”_ Horror-Devour-Blood barks and crawls to their feet. They shake their entire body and Kara’s heart drops at the spray of blood that is thrown off. She sees it now: the white expanse of the dream slowly reveals broken bodies and crunched limbs of other dragons, all surrounding the perch for miles.

_“Rite of combat is not rite of death! You slaughter your kin without reason!”_ The white dragon snarls.

_“Reason has no place among dragonkind.”_ The memory’s Sahkriimir whispers without a hint of warmth for their Blood-Father. _“Destroyer-Devour-Master is lost to Time. Akatosh’s blood spills. Dragonkind seeks a worthy leader. We were created to dominate the land!”_

“Who is that dragon? Their…” She takes a gander and guesses, _“Other_ Blood-Father.” Kara’s eyes dim. As the memory lapses and Sheogorath sputters and curses and holds his head in pain, she continues to stare at the whiteness where the memory of Sahkriimir once existed. “Answer me, Sheogorath. Gray Fox.”

“Storm-Tear-Eternity,” the Prince snaps. “You know the words, Dragonborn.”

_“Strunvaazul.” _Kara whispers the name in her dream. Saying the name brings an inexplicable sadness to her body. Her shoulders slump. “What happened to him?”

“Not _Sahkriimir _as you know them.” Sheogorath mutters under breath. His glowing white eyes fixate on her brown ones. “No, no, not at all, _no, _but yes, a little, perhaps, but not what you think you know of them! They were… You saw it, didn’t you? The name? A name only an eater of worlds could beckon! A terrible name of a terrible dragon, an enemy to the land and the sky!”

“Horror-Devour-Blood. _Vol-Du-Sos_.” She reluctantly thinks the words aloud. “What is the relevance of this? Sahkriimir killed many dragons—"

“They butchered their remaining family! The lineage of Akatosh!” The Prince lurches at her and grabs hold of her shoulders. She freezes while Sheogorath screeches softly in one ear, “What do they think they suffer for?”

“Turning their back on dragonkind’s deities? Seeking out an _et’Ada?_”

“Worthy sins!” The man spits at her feet. “_Not worthy enough._”

“If you got to the point this’d be a lot easier, Sheogorath,” Kara shoves him away and growls lowly. “I don’t read minds!”

“You should, it’s fun,” the Prince beams brightly and taps his Wabbajack at the white nothingness below the duo. He taps a foot impatiently. “Well?”

“Tell me! I don’t know the answer! I don’t know what you’re trying to make me see! I’m not _you_!” Kara snaps.

“—Even the ground quakes, Sloan, and the sky turns away in shame,” Sheogorath whispers softly. “Why did Jyggalag give me the Firstborn of the Firstborn? Why did he throw away such power?”

When Kara says nothing, the Prince of Madness guffaws.

“He wanted us to keep them from the realms! Keep them beyond Aetherius, Mundus, and Oblivion, where the force of Change does not threaten existence! That is what they are! That is what they bring, Sloan! Jyggalag _trusted me _to keep them locked! Locked! What happens if the prisoner breaks free? The chains unshackle? All I am and all I was could not hope to _tame _a beast capable of ripping Divines from the heavens! That was the fate of Strunvaazul, the eternal storm who tried to contain Change! The _equal _of Alduin could not keep them in check!”

“Did they ever make a pact with Jyggalag in the first place? If you—If you’re telling me they don’t or won’t or can’t remember—If I believe these events are real—That their memories are that—Fucked—Then—” Kara rubs her forehead. “_What actually happened with them and the Daedra?_”

“Jyggalag came into power a long time ago. He is Logic, Order, and Deduction. The logical solution is the simplest one, Kara,” Sheogorath taps her forehead. She swats his hands away, but the Prince takes it as cue to jab her gut. She squawks and steps backward while the Daedra stares coldly. “—Jyggalag made them an offer they couldn’t _refuse._”

The Prince allows his Wabbajack to dissipate into white mist. He takes a bow.

“And they were blessed with the potential to _contain the Change,_” the Prince straightens upright and stares. “And we were blessed… with being a force of self-sabotage. The necessary evil to _contain_.”

“You aren’t the Grey Fox.” Kara’s eyes widens.

“I am, was, will be, you know, the whole _Hero of Kvatch thing_ got annoying so I shoved me out of my place and took over as me and now I am me and me is here and you see who I am which is what I am now,” the Daedra speaks the words in glee. He claps slowly. “It pleases me to no end to know you are susceptible to my madness, Kara Dragonborn. But for once—I speak _common sense. _Logic, with impeccably ironic timing!”

“I have no reason to trust you—”

“You never _did! _You chose to out of pity for who I am and what I suffer!” Sheogorath spits at the ground. “But now you have no choice but to consider what we and I and you talk about! Because the Princes are to _march, _Sloan Holmes! The dragons are to soar! They will march on my Isles and soar through my shivers and _free _a force that will swallow them whole! If the pact dissolves—It is Jyggalag’s _measure _of defense, the chains that give us freedom from Change!”

“I was under the impression Jyggalag’s been negotiating these talks from the start! How in Oblivion do you explain that? I don’t want to hear lies!” Kara growls.

“Lies? _Me? _I believe my sphere of influence doesn’t cover that, hmm, perhaps another blog post is in order,” Sheogorath drums fingers on his chin. His eyes narrow. “I _imagine_ Jyggalag sees potential to weaken my fellow Daedric Princes—”

“He’s the Prince of _Order! Logic! Deduction! _Not schemes! Not plots!” Kara cuts off the Prince and jabs a finger at him.

“—After all—They _were _responsible for turning me into me and forcing Jyggalag to begin the Marches back in the olden days, yes,” the Prince waves her off and turns away. “Can he hold a _grudge, _Sloan? Turn _us _into the game?”

“You started this game! You made Paarthurnax _kill me,_” Kara shouts and makes to grab the man. When he vanishes, she snaps back and looks around wildly with a ferocity in her eyes and a need to _strangle Sheogorath _in her hands. “I don’t know if you—If you even _are _the Hero of Kvatch anymore—If you ever were—Begging for my help!”

“I do need your help, Sloan.” The voice thunders from all around her.

_“Shut up! You don’t!_ If this is even real! If any of this is true! Not just a _fucking _ploy to make me trust you! To make me turn on Sahkriimir! I don’t believe you! I don’t think you need help! And if you did—You could help yourself, you selfish _prick,_” the woman screams and yells every ounce of frustration in her bones. She grits her teeth. “You are responsible for our suffering. Sahkriimir might be responsible for being world’s worst progeny, or a _tyrannical fucking dragon doing what dragons do best, _but you? Oblivion help me, I hope I get to watch the Princes separate your head from your body. I hope you scream and beg mercy. You’ll find none. You’ll find _none_.”

“I need you to kill them.” Sheogorath appears in front of them and grabs their wrists before she can claw out his throat. The Prince looks at her with the face of a friend, of an Imperial man with the same laugh lines whose sense of humor has led to laughter many times.

Kara’s eyes bulge in anger and she screams at him, “_Stop—_Don’t you_ dare _wear his skin!_ You aren’t him! _You aren’t _Rune!” _

“I need you to kill them, Dragonborn,” Sheogorath mimics Rune’s voice perfectly. The Prince’s eyes narrow. “Only a dragon can kill a dragon. You have to kill them. It’s the logical solution to—"

“I’m not—I won’t. I won’t. Get out of my head! _Get out!” _Kara belts and wrenches herself free of the Daedra and his madness.

She wakes up in a wagon pulled by an old man with an old horse. It’s cold; the snow falls from a field of gray clouds stretching the sky. Beads of sweat roll off her brow and Kara stares at the gray sky until her heart stops falling in her chest. She looks over and sees Brynjolf asleep further up on the seats and Vex curled up next to her in the bed of the wagon. In a fair corner is Barbas; the Daedra looks surprisingly peaceful when asleep as a dog. When Kara sits up, she frowns at the sight of Vex stirring and giving her sleepy, grumpy eyes, “You—Terrible pillow, Kara. Damnit.”

“How far out are we from Riften?” Kara ignores her and looks at the old man. “Driver!”

“Three hours at a steady rate.” The man nods and tips his cap back at her. “You ‘right back there? Could’a sworn you were swearing in your sleep, miss. But the Nord there asked me to keep headin’ on.”

“’Course, Brynjolf fucking second-head of the Thieves Guild wants to keep _going_ in this weather.” Kara holds her head in her hands and curses under breath. “He better pay you well, I don’t have coin!”

“If you want remind him of a tip—” The man coughs and smiles politely.

“Will do.” The Dragonborn sighs.

She feels Vex jab her a moment later. The white-haired woman sits upright, back against the actual seats of the wagon, but her eyes lock on Kara and don’t move. The thief squints and crosses her arms. “What did you dream of, Kara?”

“Nothing.” The Dragonborn’s lie isn’t bought. Kara scowls at the Imperial. “Fine, _fine! _If you insist! I had a dream involving my _least_ favorite Daedric Prince. Sheogorath. He…” She trails off, because she doesn’t know how to explain the madness of the dream. “—He showed me things that didn’t make sense. Showed me things that… I don’t know if they’re real or not, but he wants me to believe they are. Or he wanted to, in the dream. He said things I didn’t… I didn’t _enjoy _listening to, Vex. He pretended to be Rune_._”

“What a crock of assholery. Daedra don’t give two shits about the dead.” The Imperial huffs.

Kara checks her pocket for Rune’s stone. To her relief, the white stone is safe and sound where she placed it. She pulls it out and turns it over in her hands while she waits. “He also tried to… He tried to, Zeus, how can I put this? He tried to convince me there’s a _giant conspiracy _among the Daedra. That Sahkriimir is a drake named Voldusos? Or... something. But—That isn’t true. And he claimed a draconic Divine named _Strunvaazul_ got murdered back in the day. It was a mess. It’s all a mess. I almost believed it for a moment. I almost thought—I actually thought, earlier, before, that Sheogorath had—That part of him was actually _asking _me for help—That he wasn’t just this crown of madness!”

“You don’t think that. Do you?” Vex pauses. “You don’t—Right, Kara?”

“Gods, no! _No! _If I did then—I’d have to—” She can’t bring herself to say the words, especially once Brynjolf begins to stir where he’s laying down, stretched across seats. Kara inhales deeply and calms herself. “It was a ruse. I can’t trust Sheogorath. I won’t trust him. He’s in a pickle.”

“In a _pickle?” _It’s good to hear Brynjolf’s bemused tone, because when the man sits up and rubs his eyes, his entire expression reverts to reflect every worry and concern plaguing his mind. The ginger-haired Nord looks out at the wilderness slowly passing by. He grimaces. “Can’t you go any faster, lad?”

“Sherry is as Sherry does.” The driver chuckles lightly. “Can’t make her go faster than she is.”

“It’s still faster than walking. Or… Running, Brynjolf—Don’t even think about it,” Kara warns the man. She can see him consider it, and she relaxes only when he sinks into his seat and sighs.

“—Should’ve kept the horses.” The Nord shuts his eyes.

“And done what? I didn’t have magicka, Bryn,” Vex barks the words. Her brows furrow. “I had _jack shit _for potions and neither of you had any! It was a mercy kill. We couldn’t let them suffer for hours just to get magicka back and _maybe _drag out their suffering a couple more hours. _You saw their legs._”

“Seven days, Vex. _Seven days._” The man growls.

“C’mon,” Kara grimaces. “We can only do what we can do.”

“Mercer’s had a week on us. He won’t be there.” Brynjolf holds his head in his hands. He grits his teeth. “Talos. I should never have left them or Mullokah.”

“When we find Sahkriimir, I need them to conjure Sullivan for me.” Kara interjects. She ignores the two’s gazes and huffs. “I need to speak with him and _Lord Sanguine, okay_?”

“You’re incredibly comfy with these Daedra.” Vex states. “How many’s it been now? That weird butler? _His Lordship? _Clavicus? Sheogorath? You’re a magnet for things, Kara.”

“Hey! Sweet cheeks! Don’t forget your pal and buddy _here,_” The voice comes from Barbas. Up until now, the Daedric dog’s been asleep still-as-stone within a corner of the wagon bed. The dog growls at Vex’s snort. “Am I that forgetful, huh?”

“Don’t forget Nocturnal,” Brynjolf adds, talking over the Daedra without pause.

Vex frowns. “Her too. And… the dog, if only to make him _shut up._”

“Zeus forbid we forget the dog.” Kara sighs.

The remainder of the trip is quiet. None of the thieves are especially chatty, though Vex offers occasional remarks on the snow-laden surroundings they pass. Kara finds her anticipation for Riften slowly grows in intensity. When the lakeside town first comes into view, her eyes light up and she calls it out. Her enthusiasm is short-lived, because something is very, _very _off about the guards at the gate. It’s a checkpoint; Kara frowns widely at the sight.

No sooner than the wagon pulls up, does one guard step forward to the left side. His helm hides his face, but his voice contains exhaustion as he snaps, _“Names?”_

“Lad—" Brynjolf leans back in his seat and looks across the wagon. His posture reveals the tension in his limbs, the rigidness of his shoulders and his worried gaze. “What is this?”

“Can’t let no one in without names, _sir._ Jarl’s orders. I’ll need your names if you want to get in. And the horse’s name, too, just to be safe.” The man clears his throat. He doesn’t just sound _tired. _He sounds ready to drop at a moment’s notice; Kara reckons he might pull a weapon in a second if any of them breathe the wrong way.

“Jarl really that paranoid?” Brynjolf sighs. “I’m having a right talk with Delvin about this when we get inside.”

“I’ll join you.” Vex grimaces.

“Delvin—Delvin _Mallory?”_ The guard sputters. He looks at each thief then scurries away to a group of three guardsmen and two guardswomen standing at the side. After a brief discussion, the guard returns and clears his throat. “Your arrival has been anticipated, Brynjolf. Vex. Dragonborn. The Jarl wishes to see you within the hour.”

“The Jarl?” Kara frowns. She turns to Brynjolf. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know.” The ginger-haired man is at a loss for words. He reaches for an empty flask, opens it, and frowns when no alcohol comes. Brynjolf holds his head in his hands and sighs. “I don’t _know_ anymore, lass.”

The guard gestures at the walls. Two sentries stationed overhead nod and orders ring out. A moment later, great locks can be heard unlocking and the doors are pulled open for the group. The old man and Sherry the old horse drop the trio off near Riften’s center plaza. Kara forgets to mention a tip until the wagon’s already halfway out the gate, at which she gives up on the idea and turns to Brynjolf. His eyes are moving around the plaza constantly, never staying in one place too long. His words make Kara’s hair stand on end, “They’re watching us.”

“Who?” Vex snaps and hovers a hand near her dagger’s sheathe at her waist.

“The Hold Guards.” Brynjolf grits his teeth. “This place isn’t how we left it. More of ‘em, too.”

“We should get to the cistern.” Kara frowns.

“No, we need to go see the Jarl,” it’s unlike Brynjolf to get involved in governing structures of towns unless blackmail or extortion is involved. Kara grimaces at the thought of the man trying to run for office; he wouldn’t survive a day come election season in her original Earth home-country. Brrynjolf inhales slowly and adds on the down low, “—Don’t draw any weapons, lasses. They’ll cut us up in seconds.” He calmly gestures with slight finger movements at different buildings, on the second level and upper rafters of existing structures.

Kara counts five different archers observing them, arrows notched and aimed at the ready. She curses internally. “—You have a point.”

“Fine! Let’s see the damn Jarl!” Vex snaps. “I thought you were _so _excited to try and find Sahkriimir and Mullokah—”

“_I am,_ with my head intact,” Brynjolf’s hands clench. He inhales slowly. “Let’s go to the Keep.”

Mistveil Keep is magnificent in the spring, summer, and autumn, but come winter it’s old-styled outer décor and stone pillars become a drab of gray against more gray. The only thing that appeals to Kara is the open courtyard on the western side, and the way the buildings connect to courtyard and the eastern prisons through underground corridors. That aside, she sees little in it that interests her. Snow continues to fall and darkness descends with the early evening as all three thieves and their furry friend walk into the keep.

What Kara sees is not an elder Nord with light red hair and a heaping, multi-layered dress, but that of a wry and thin Nord woman in her upper forties or early fifties. The woman dresses modestly but with a splurge of wealth across her attire; jewelry comes in the form of necklaces, rings, and bracelets. She slouches across the throne with a smile to her lips and mystery to her eyes, dark brown like a fresh fire’s smoke. She is Maven Black-Briar, and she is entrancing in the most terrifying way possible to the Dragonborn.

“Maven…? What? When did she become Jarl?” Kara whispers the words before she can stop herself. The guards posted around the court room flinch. At another end, a tall man she recalls as _Maul _pushes himself upright and eyes the trio, but Maven holds a hand and halts his advances.

“—Lovely for you to join us, Brynjolf. Vex. Dragonborn.” Jarl Maven speaks calmly and without fear. Her dark hair frames a pale complexion, vicious and capable of causing great calamities for the unfortunate who piss her off.

Kara swallows nervously. “Kara.”

_“Kara Dragonborn._ Yes.” Maven blinks idly. It’s clear she doesn’t give two shits about the Dragonborn, and the fact alone makes Kara’s stomach do flips. Maven’s gaze shifts to Brynjolf. She smiles faintly and, with a wave of her hand, dismisses the guards in the room. Maul is hesitant to leave, but he excuses himself without so much a grunt before departing. Alone with the three thieves, Maven sits upright. “I had half a mind to think you were dead, Brynjolf. But I know you. I know Nords. We do not die to the cold.”

“What is this about, Maven? You have sentries posted the far walls. Guards at every corner. I’m not running.” Brynjolf’s voice has far more composure than Kara thinks she could muster in a year when confronted with Maven Black-Briar. The Nord squints at the Jarl and quickly adds, “—I have important business in the cistern. I’d prefer this don’t take long.”

“Yes, yes, that volatile dragon and the boy… Such _important business_.” Maven dismisses his words. She stands. At her waist is a longsword in a beautiful silver sheathe. One of the Jarl’s hands lingers on the hilt lazily. “—We will get to the _cistern _in a moment, Brynjolf. I want to talk about Frey. Who you,” the woman sighs and shakes her head. “—_Didn’t_ kill.”

“A Nightingale’s hard to hook,” Brynjolf states flatly. “He was one of the best. Still is.”

“I don’t care. You haven’t caught him, and that affects _me _and the pockets I procure,” Maven’s eyes narrow. “I’m disappointed.”

“You gonna kill me, Maven?” He’s bold with his words; Kara has half a mind to slap him on the back and half the mind to sock Brynjolf in the jaw.

“No, no, I’m not that foolish. I need you. You’re all that’s left.” Maven’s smile returns in the form of a candid smirk, stretching ear-to-ear in delight when Brynjolf freezes.

“What?” Brynjolf stares. “What have you done?”

“Not what I’ve done, second head. I don’t kill where I eat. The existence of the Thieves Guild in Riften has always been… _beneficial._”

“A smart lady.” When the dog speaks, Kara wants to strangle the Daedra. It’s becoming a habit: solve problems through strangulation, and she worries about herself almost as much as she worries whether Maven Black-Briar might order their heads to the chopping block from Barbas’ snappy remark.

Maven’s eyes darken. She looks past the three thieves and to the dog at Vex’s side. Barbas’ tail continues to wag; the dog doesn’t appear bothered for a second. “So you’ve come.”

“’Course I did. What, you think our masters cajole for _fun? _Maven, honey, get a grip, we ain’t just a woman and a dog! We got to become _best friends._” Barbas barks loudly. At Maven’s silent request—and Kara doubts it’s a request at all, moreso Barbas’ way of justifying the whole ordeal—Barbas takes it upon himself to leap unto the courtroom table and snarf a whole steak in seconds.

All three thieves stare.

“How do you know him?” Kara’s on edge moreso than before. There’s nothing comical about the circumstances at hand even if Maven Black-Briar’s disgruntled brow raise is amusing to see. She walks forward past Brynjolf and jabs a finger at the Jarl. “How do you know a _Daedra?”_

“I did not get where I am today through petty thievery or obsolete acts of heroism, Dragonborn.” Maven states slowly. “—I found fortune through the means my enemies could not strike down.”

“An et’Ada. A Daedric Prince. You _bitch,_” Kara finds anger boils up inside her. Her temper flares and she grits her teeth. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you? _Haven’t you?_”

“You’ll have to be specific.” The Jarl smiles faintly.

“About _everything! _About—About Sahkriimir—Mullokah—Dragonborns popping up out of the blue! You wretched woman! Which one of them is it? Who do you _serve?_” Kara wants nothing more than to draw her shortsword and cut the Daedric worshipper down. It infuriates her to no end that the Black-Briar matriarch has calmly finagled things in the background while she and those she cares about suffer and struggle on front lines.

“Oh, ho, _ho, _good ol’ Barbas knows this one, ha, ha!” The dog on the table yips loudly at Maven’s stare. Barbas barrels his way to the other side of the tables and leaps off, landing in front of Kara and Brynjolf. He cocks his head to one side. “This here is the _Champion of Mephala, _Dragonborn! One of the only! See her and soak in the schemes, ha!”

Kara draws her shortsword and takes aim, a shout of _gol hah _on her lips. Her eyes blaze furiously. “You make me _sick!”_

It isn’t Maven drawing her own open that stops her, but that of Brynjolf’s snap. “—Kara! Enough, lass! Put it _away!” _

“She—She knew all this time! She knew what _Mercer Frey _was, Brynjolf! She could’ve stopped him—Before any of this happened!” Kara spits at Maven’s feet, but she heeds the Thieves Guild’s second head and slowly slides her short sword into its sheathe. Her hands ache for a bow and arrow, to fire twenty thousand shots through the Black-Briar matriarch. She knows she won’t get that luxury, so she settles for glaring at the black-haired woman.

Maven’s slight smirk makes Kara hiss and seethe in rage.

“A wise choice, Brynjolf.” The Jarl states coolly. “Wouldn’t want your Dragonborn to lose her head.”

“—Explain what’s going on, Maven. _Clearly,_” Brynjolf’s voice falters a moment and Kara can hear the hate in his voice, oozing and festering for the Black-Briar. “You know more about it than any of us.”

“What the fuck is up with the guards?” Vex snaps.

“—Why have they tripled in post?” Brynjolf clarifies the question. He squints. “Expecting us to put up a fight?”

“They were never for you, Brynjolf. Nor your Dragonborn. We have more pressing matters at hand.” The Jarl’s tone is dry and condescending. “But you do not ask the questions here. Not yet. I want to show you something. Barbas here—”

“Nah, I got to come, it’s written in the contract,” the dog snorts and paws at the ground. “Otherwise… I’m gonna find a nice place to sit down and take a dump or two. You wouldn’t want that, _pal.”_

“Why didn’t you stop Mercer Frey?” Kara dares to breath the question she knows is on her fellow thieves minds. She meets Maven Black-Briar’s gaze and doesn’t dare back down on it. “If you know so _much—_Why didn’t you stop him yourself?”

“Because I gave the Thieves Guild the job of doing it. I did not say I would do it myself. Business is as business does, Dragonborn.” The Jarl clicks with her tongue.

“You knew he was _here _and you did nothing? _Nothing?_” Kara spews the words one-by-one. Her outrage returns and her form tenses.

“—Even if I _knew_, it does not mean I am asinine in the head. To take on a possessor of the Skeleton Key without adequate preparation is a foolish task, Dragonborn. He’s not a man of mortals anymore. Did _Ansilvund_ teach you nothing about his capabilities?” Maven shows no fear; she walks to Kara and stares her in the eye. The older woman shows nothing but confident, pride, and charisma.

“…You know about Ansilvund.” Brynjolf’s in disbelief. Kara’s chest aches for him.

“I know what I know for a reason. You are not privy to the knowledge, but that does not mean it doesn’t _exist,_” the Jarl rests her arms at her side. She looks from one thief to the next, skipping Vex entirely. “—We did not find the _bodies _until days after it happened. A patron to your _Ragged Flagon _reported the… unfortunate incident.”

“Bodies.” All three thieves say the same, each with their own fear, worry, and grief beginning to seep through the syllables.

Kara’s is mixed with shock. “Who—How many?”

“You’ll see. I left it for you in particular—_Brynjolf,_” Maven glances back at the man. “The skeevers may gotten to the corpses. If worse comes to worse—I asked Maul to procure a list of the assumed dead.”

The Nord’s face is white as a sheet. Kara understands, then, what it means for things to be _worse than death. _She sees the fear take over the man she views as the epitome of reliable, the definition of level-headed and well-rounded. She sees sweats break out on his skin, his teeth clench and unclench, and his eyes become blank and glossy up to the point he finally turns and staggers out of the keep before anyone can stop him. Kara’s on his heels in seconds; she doesn’t think through leaving Vex behind but to her relief the white-haired Imperial didn’t think the same of her either. Both women run after Brynjolf down several roads, twists, and turns, and catch up only when he’s jamming the corner of a coffin to force the chain mechanism of the mausoleum to activate. The guild’s secret exit and entrance pops into view when the coffin slides to the side.

“Stop!” Kara shouts at him, almost _pleadingly, _because part of her fears what lurks in the cistern as much as what lurks above. She tries to grab Brynjolf by the arm, the shirt, the hair, but he shoves her away and Vex narrowly manages to keep her from falling over. The man disappears down the ladder rungs into the darkness.

Vex looks down at her. “Are you okay?”

“They won’t be dead. They won’t be dead. They won’t.” Kara reassures herself in short, frantic breaths. She lets Vex pull her to her feet. The white-haired Imperial frowns at her and squeezes her hand before Kara lurches forward and begins to climb down. She hears Vex follow from above.

Halfway down comes the shouts, the agonized yells, and the heart-pounding screams of Sahkriimir’s and Mullokah’s names over and over. She knows who the voice belongs to, but the hoarse, desperate tone is inhumane and raspy. She covers her ears with her hands and clenches her eyes shut until Brynjolf gives up on the shouting. Vex waits until she’s ready before the two take each other’s hand and Kara leads the Imperial into the depths of the cistern.

It’s worse than Maven hinted at. Kara throws up when the aroma of death, the ferociously putrid and necrotic scent of _rot _filters through her nostrils. Her eyes water and she cries silently when the details of the scene come into focus.

There was a fight between Mercer Frey and the Thieves Guild. The Thieves Guild didn’t win. Mercer Frey ensured they did not get a chance to try twice. Kara hears Vex choke up and begin to weep when the duo find Sapphire’s corpse half-eaten by skeevers and sprawled across one corner. Kara can’t stop her own sobs when she sees the woman’s broken wrists and shattered ankles. It wasn’t _only _a fight. It was a domination of power: a demonstration of a dragon’s strength against helpless mortals. Mercer Frey did not merely attack, he _destroyed, _and his destruction claimed the life of Sapphire and all others present.

The only thing left of Vipir is a rotten leg and tattered clothes. Skeevers are not present but Kara sees the work they’ve done on corpses across the cistern. Tonilia is a mess of chunks ripped out of the Redguard’s flesh; her body is in comparably better condition, only a few strikes to her chest, neck, and back expose her cause of death. Kara reckons she was taken by surprise; it brings no peace to know she didn’t suffer, because Tonilia remains dead and Kara remains alive and though the two were not close it still _hurts. _

The two don’t find Vekel. Dirge is absent entirely; the man isn’t a member of the Guild, if one can even call the Thieves Guild such anymore, but Kara recalls he knew Vekel and enough of the Guild to count at times.

When she finds Delvin, Brynjolf is knelt near the man. He doesn’t weep loudly, but she sees the tears nonetheless. He can’t hide them, not from her or from Vex or himself. Kara stares at his back until he rises. Only then she gets a clear picture of what went on: she sees empty bottles around Delvin’s slouched body in his room. She sees his knife in one faintly-gnawed hand. She sees the stain of old blood from a single laceration deep across his neck. Brynjolf holds a note, and when he passes it to her the paper confirms everything she pieces together.

_Bryn,_

_I couldn’t be the man to rely on. Little Vex was right. I got time to peep but no shit to do when the worse happens, always thinking with my dick an’ never my head. Frey came by the guild. He’s not like you or I. I couldn’t stop him. Shouted me to sit, and… my legs went. _

_I promised Glover I’d look out for his daughter. But Sapphire’s dead. My niece is gone. An’ so is everyone else. _

_I had a chance to kill Frey when he walked in. I should’a taken it. Sorry, Bryn. You got to get him for both of us. I can’t. It’s too much. I fucked up with Sapphire. Begged him to spare her. Frey took so long with her. I can’t get the sounds out of my head._

_I lied to you about the Brotherhood. Never did quit. Astrid’s got them both. I won’t be here to say sorry, but apologies all the same. Life’s greatest gift is death._

_-D. M. _

“The Brotherhood. The Dark Brotherhood.” Kara exhales sharply. She runs a hand through her hair and shudders. “—That—This—”

“Thieves Guild is dead.” Brynjolf’s voice is that of a broken man. “They’re all dead. This is how it ends. Kara.”

“No, no, Gods, Artemis, no,” Kara sucks in a breath. She needs to calm. She won’t shout him again, she took too long apologizing for it on the road back to Riften. Her heart hurts. “No, Brynjolf, no—No. No.”

_“Look around you!”_ The man _snaps _and clenches his fists. He’s lashing out because of grief, but it doesn’t lighten the impact. Brynjolf yells loudly enough to echo across the cistern. “Everyone’s _gone!” _

“—Not everyone,” Kara grits her teeth. Her eyes water. “Not everyone.”

“This was _our home! Our livelihood! _He—” Brynjolf balls his fists and begins to weep, drawn-out and agonizing. He shakes with each breath. He can’t finish his sentence. His hands unclench, he holds his head, and he curses until his voice is hoarse and he can’t cry anymore.

Kara’s eyes dim. She wipes her eyes and shakes her head. “It’s gone now—I _know_—But we can’t—”

“All we had to do was _sit here and wait! Wait for him! _He was coming back! We were—All of us—Fools!” Brynjolf shouts at the wall. _“Fools!” _

_Fools. Fools. Fools. Sahkriimir would say that. _Kara’s hands tremble. She looks back at the note, the _suicide _note, and turns it over in her hands. The words sting as deeply as the first time. She looks down and opens her mouth to speak but no words come. She stands until Brynjolf goes quiet, and only then does the woman offer any other statements. “…The Dark Brotherhood has them. We have… one month. Three weeks. Until…”

Brynjolf says nothing.

Kara tries again. “—We should go to Falkreath. Brynjolf. You, me, Vex. The dog. I know where the sanctuary is.”

“Does it matter anymore?” The Nord pushes past her and leaves the room.

Vex enters a moment later. She’s not in better shape, but she isn’t held down by grief. Not yet. The Imperial woman is not always tough, but at that second Kara sees her trying to be a strong face. The Dragonborn’s eyes water and she whispers, “He’s not okay, Vex.”

“None of us are.” The woman states softly.

It feels comforting to be drawn into a tight a hug by the white-haired woman. Kara lets her body relax in the thief’s scent, far better than the rotten air of the cistern. She slows her breathing until her throat doesn’t want to cry out of her chest. She lets tears fall where they need to. When she runs out, she simply stands there holding unto the woman. Vex feels warm, and safe, and good, when the rest of the world is nothing but a haze of pain, a haze of grief, and a fog that never lifts even when dawn breaks.

When Kara draws back, she sees Vex has cried too. The sight aches inside her chest. She finds her hands move to the woman’s jawline, and Kara gently runs her thumbs back and forth over the Imperial’s cheeks. Vex’s faint smile is worth the world, even if it lasts but a second before dissipating.

“We have to keep going.” Kara whispers softly. “All of us. To find a way to stop this from happening again.”

“Maybe he can’t.” Vex says, just as softly. “What will you do then?”

“Go alone.” The Dragonborn’s eyes water. “I have to try.”

“Not alone.” The thief clasps Kara’s hands in her own and squeezes them.

“Do you believe in other worlds, Vex?”

“I,” the woman pauses, considers her words, and leans over to Kara’s ear. “I believe in you.”

The smile it brings to Kara’s lips makes Vex smile, too. For a moment the world is less pained. Then the moment passes, the smiles fade, and Kara looks to the side. “We should talk to Brynjolf. He’s not… He’s not okay. He’s not handling it well.”

“He just found out the people he’s put his life into are dead. His friends. People he viewed as family, Kara. He’s allowed to not handle it well.” Vex points out gently, gaze watchful.

Kara decides to shove Delvin’s note into a pocket. She frowns and shakes her head. “—No, no. No, Vex. Not yet. I need him—We need him to be strong. A little more. Sahkriimir and Mullokah—They were taken by the Dark Brotherhood. They might still be alive.” The Dragonborn exhales sharply, all the weight of the world on her shoulders as she adds. “We can’t leave Brynjolf behind. We’re part of his family now. And as part of his family—We need to look out for him.”

“You have a weird way of looking at things sometimes,” Vex states quietly. “But I won’t—I’m not arguing against it.”

With that, the two find Brynjolf just two quarters down, in his room. He sits on his cot and watches the floor. Kara swallows and Vex pulls her forward. One sits on the ground across him, and the other on a chair nearby. Kara takes the floor. She seeks out the man’s sunken gaze, but she finds it is empty and pained.

“Bryn.” Vex states quietly. “We need to get moving.”

He doesn’t reply.

“—Sahkriimir and Mullokah are alive. We need to find them.” Kara adds.

The man’s stare is void of light. It’s numbing to witness. Brynjolf averts his gaze to the side. “What’s the point? Look around. Our lives are gone. Everyone’s dead.”

“They aren’t dead,” Kara frowns. “Brynjolf.”

“They may as well be.” Is the response.

“How can you say that?” Vex grits her teeth. Her patience is fickle. “C’mon—Bryn—Don’t think that way.”

As Vex begins to go back-and-forth with Brynjolf in circular trains of thought and looped thought processes, Kara sits and watches the two. She frowns and glances around the room. Signs of Sahkriimir are still present: clothes in a bin in the corner, a splayed-open tome of conjure Dremora, and several long strands of dirty-blond hair linger on the blanket on the coat. Almost absentmindedly, Kara feels a compulsion to feel her own pockets. She pauses to touches her left thigh; the pocket present clinks in response. The woman’s brows furrow when she pulls out an Amulet of Mara.

Sahkriimir’s Amulet of Mara.

“This,” Kara frowns. _How did it get in there? I thought Barbas gave it to the shrine? I didn’t think Brynjolf got it back, but… _

She stiffens at the realization the other two thieves have gone quiet. Vex’s eyes are on her and Brynjolf’s eyes lay on the amulet. Kara frowns and waits until the man’s gaze slips to her. Brynjolf’s eyes finally express something: grief.

“That belongs to Sahkriimir.” The Nord states quietly. “The dog took it.”

“Well, _I _have it now, so,” Kara swallows her nerves. She wonders, briefly, if it is _luck _that brought up the amulet at that exact moment. She holds it out to Brynjolf and he slowly takes it and turns it over in his hands. Kara pauses. “—You need to give it back to them. You said you would hold unto it for a time. I think it’s time you return it.”

Brynjolf’s eyes soften. He tucks the amulet into one pocket and crosses his arms. “How you propose I do that, Kara?"

“Come with us to Falkreath.” Kara pushes herself to her feet and straightens upright. “The Dark Brotherhood sanctuary is there. I know how to get in. Delvin—He left the password, too. He left it in that note for a reason. He wanted you to know how to get into the sanctuary. That’s where Sahkriimir and Mullokah will be. I’m sure of it.”

“He was an interesting man. Delvin Mallory.” Brynjolf shuts his eyes and exhales sharply. He shakes his head. “Older than me.”

“An old fart.” Vex grumbles under breath. She and Kara alike are relieved to see Brynjolf’s temporary smile. It’s a start.

“Aye, lass. An old fart.” The Nord stands and brushes himself off. “We got no gold, no horses, no supplies. Nothing. How we do this?”

“We improvise,” Kara suggests as she leads the trio out of the room and back to the main cistern. She’s about to continue, to propose her glorious scheme of stealing from the Mistveil Keep Vault, when she catches sight of Maven Black-Briar and several guards standing by the exit corridor. The Dragonborn stares at the Jarl. Her hands tense. “Maven.”

“Now you know.” The Jarl is curt.

“We know.” Vex snaps. “Get out of _our _cistern!”

“No. We were not done with our conversation.” Maven pauses a moment and eyes Kara carefully. She slowly drawls on. “—Dragonborn. There is a… notorious problem at hand. I can’t let you leave until it is dealt with.”

“What could _possibly _be such a big deal that Maven Black-Briar can’t handle it?” The Dragonborn growls.

The Jarl’s eyes show no amusement, only an unease that makes Kara pause. Maven puckers her lips, looks across the trio, and sighs. “—The First Dragonborn is en route to Riften. Miraak is coming here.”


	36. zu'u lost folaas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in attempt to extend an olive branch to the first dragonborn and his dragons, cadha tries to learn more about them. it doesn't end well.

She didn’t think Miraak would leave her in the middle of nowhere. Then again, she isn’t sure _what _to think of him given he calls her _kiim_, wife, and then leaves abruptly before she can drill him with questions. It’s an irritating prospect; she doesn’t like being alone in the wilderness and the wild lands around the cave structure are too dangerous to traverse by foot during the winter. It’s likely the reason Miraak and his dragons picked the spot in the first place: without flight, few individuals can easily reach the area. It doesn’t spell well for Cadha; she finds herself stranded and unable to venture more than a mile in the surrounding wilderness before she winds up at the cave to avoid the cold.

To her surprise, she finds a dark shape approach the cave structure from outside three days in. The masked man isn’t on it, but the dragon—Relonikiv, if she remembers correctly—brings a crudely-wrapped parcel. The dragon hisses at her when it lands and drops the items; Cadha’s brows furrow in confusion at what she finds. The majority goods are rations, a collection of dry meat and varying plants along with a waterskin. Nothing looks appetizing but food is food and Cadha doesn’t hesitate to eat a long line of what she believes to be elf jerky. Beyond the food, several spell tomes catch her eye; she run a finger down the covers of yellow restoration spell tomes. She can’t decide if it’s an insult or not; Miraak seems full of himself and his ego to the point he would assign a job to her and expect her to follow it. That, or maybe he really thinks all she knows is healing magic.

_I am a conjurer. Not a… _Cadha rubs her forehead and puts the books to the side. Relonikiv eyes her as she continues to pick apart the items sent.

She finds a set of clothes. They aren’t akin to the usual mage robes she knows of, and they don’t look anything like the darker robes of necromancers she’s run across in the past. The robes are lightly padded but elegant, in dark gray material with gold embroidery. It reminds her distinctly of Thalmor, but the stitching doesn’t look like elven craftsmanship. Mer are too frivolous to use such simply work and not spruce it up over-the-top. Cadha raises a brow at the realization the garment is enchanted; when she stares, she sees a faint purple shimmer swirl across the fabric’s surface. She finds a matching set of gloves and boots with the robes. The woman doesn’t know what enchantments the items possess, but she finds they fit well enough and are a welcome change to her ruined mage robes before.

The last thing she finds is a single gold band. She almost misses it, but the glint of metal draws her eyes and makes her do a double take. Cadha’s blue eyes widen and she lifts the small ring to her face. She can feel inscriptions on the outside, but she doesn’t understand or recognize any of the symbols etched into the metal.

“Why did he get me this?” The half-Nord mutters under breath. She stares at the ring. “…It doesn’t symbolize anything. Miraak wouldn’t get it to symbolize nothing. He’d have my head if I wasn’t… If he didn’t care about debt.” She shoves the ring in her pocket.

The woman finds the next day long and drawn out. She reads some of the restoration tomes, but the school of magic is drastically different than her preferred conjuration methods and none of the spells stick. She frowns and rubs her chin at the increasingly complex illustrations detailing how one alters their magicka to match the cell properties of the body. How any of it compares to the intricate spellcircles and the shapes used to conjure and summon different creatures is _beyond _Cadha.

She isn’t alone in the wilderness of Skyrim forever. Though Relonikiv departs from the cave, it is only two days before Cadha awakens to a thunderous roar outside. She snaps upright when another roar follows, then a snarl. The different dragon noises means one of two things: either Miraak’s dragons are back, or she is about to be eaten alive by wild dragons. Both sound terrifying, but at least the first means she won’t be stuck entertaining herself for hours on end. She’s fed up with looking through restoration novels. She makes to stand and pauses at the sound of Miraak speaking to one dragon in the background. She can’t make out the words, but she recognizes it as dragon speech. Cadha trudges to the cave entrance and peeks out.

Sahrotaar’s smooth, serpentine jaw greets her. Cadha holds a hand to her mouth in fear and narrowly sidesteps the dragon as it slithers deep into the cave. She hears faint chuckling; when she snaps her head at the source, she finds Miraak looks beyond her into the cave depths, but it is clear he finds her predicament amusing. Cadha’s brows furrow. She marches up to the masked man and stares at the golden mask hiding his face. “—Where have you been?”

Miraak ignores her and strides inside the cave. His hands go to his head, to his hair, and Cadha can’t resist staring at the way he effortlessly fixes the dark strands and ties it back with a ceremonial clasp at the base of his neck. It’s practiced behavior; she wonders if he grew up in nobility, perhaps, to explain the subtle action.

But he has yet to explain himself. She doubts he will, but when Miraak begins to pick through _her _rations and take the best of what she has left, Cadha finds her patience wanes. She strides to the man and stares even when he pulls off his mask and eats. Her blue eyes narrow on his face, soaking the details in. “Miraak.”

He bites off a chunk of venison from a slab of jerky. The man glances at her briefly but returns his gaze to the food in hand. It doesn’t escape her how he looks over the mess of restoration tomes, most of them tossed haphazardly to the side in her earlier frustration.

Cadha tries again. She knows one way to make him acknowledge her. The woman sits next to him, leans over, and whispers in his ear, _“Miraak._”

“Don’t.” The man snaps.

“Don’t ignore me.” The woman snaps back. “I’ll say it again.”

Divines, the man might be a mage of sorts or even a Dragonborn, but he doesn’t handle her words well. Maybe he _is_ the epitome of her past description of him: a horny bastard. But if exploiting the fact Miraak is easily aroused makes him acknowledge her, then she’ll repeat it. His erection isn’t her problem. She needs answers _now_.

“What do you want?” The man puts his mask back on.

Cadha crosses her arms. “An explanation would be a good start. Why you called me _kiim.” _She surprises him in saying the word, because for a moment Miraak stares and his brows rise a sliver. She inhales slowly. “You said—It means _wife?_”

“It does.”

“Why did you call me your _wife?_” The woman grits her teeth. “We went over this!”

“No, that was the discussion of an heir,” Miraak turns his head away. “We did not cover _kiim_.”

“Then cover it! Or—Or. Something.” Cadha mumbles under her breath. She squints at him and continues, “Why?”

“You should have asked for something else for my debt, _kiim._” It seems like Miraak drops the term ‘woman’ in favor of addressing her as _kiim _now. Cadha wants to grimace; she despises when he doesn’t use her name.

“I didn’t know—I wasn’t aware it could lead to this. That. Marriage.” The conjurer sighs loudly. “Do you know nothing of the Temple of Mara, of marriage, of Amulets of Mara in Skyrim? Their meaning? _Nothing _of the sort has taken place here! There is no reason to…” She can’t find the rest of the thought. Cadha drops it and quickly adds, “—It doesn’t matter. We are not married. We are not spouses.”

“You asked to be _ronit_. Equal. _Dov _and_ Dovahkiin… _We find equals one of two ways,” Miraak stands. He looks down at her. When he offers a hand, she stares, but the man holds it out until Cadha obliges in taking it. She stares when he pulls her to him, flush against his chest. He’s so _close _and looks spectacularly different from that angle, it almost makes her forget what she’s talking about. Miraak continues talking as if things are the same. “—We engage in combat. _Grah. _Battle. Whether to recognize rank, or…” When a hand rises to her face and caresses her jawline, she forgets where she is. The masked man pauses. “—Find suitable… mates.”

“We aren’t _mates._ I said—I said,” Cadha ignores how warm his touch is, a welcome respite from the cold. “I said to treat me _like _an equal. Not—"

“_Dov _custom is long-withstanding.” Miraak informs her without pause. “It may escape you—But I am a man of tradition. I respect the old ways. I do not care for you, but you demand to be my _ronit. _Equal. That is why I recognize you as _kiim. _Wife. I will keep you fed and sheltered. What you do is not my concern.” He releases her and turns away.

_“Miraak,_” Cadha feels his body tense. Part of her is petty, but she wants him to feel every bit as annoyed and frustrated as she does. She hears him hold his breath. The woman’s eyes narrow on his mask. She doubts he has had anyone to push him around or snap back at him, Hermaeus Mora aside. But she isn’t a Daedra; she doesn’t act the way she does to ensnare souls. She wants to survive, and she wants her survival to be a little more tolerable than her life up until then. Just like the dragons, she needs to be more direct in addressing the masked man.

She grabs his wrist. She knows he’ll react—and his body stiffens, his other hand makes for the guard of his sword instinctively—but she pulls him back to face her and, just as quickly, makes for his mask. His hands land on her arms just as she unclasps the mask and frees it from his face. The man’s growl is deep. “Leave it!”

“I want to see your face.” The conjurer demands. “A _wife _should be able to see her _husband._”

He loosens his grip on her and she successfully peels the mask away. Her eyes meet his dark, agitated green ones. Cadha does not feel fear. She refuses to. Fear is for snapping jaws of a dragon, not a guy who goes around claiming random women are his wives, that much is now clear. She looks down and turns the mask over in her hands. It’s ornate, almost beautiful, but the design of tendrils and tentacles on the front makes her stomach flip-flop. “Why do you wear it?”

“To detach myself from landwalkers like yourself, _kiim._” Miraak’s eyes narrow.

“Well, you are doing a _great_ job at that.” Cadha mutters under breath. She meets his gaze and pauses. “Who are you, Miraak?”

“The First Dragonborn. _Dovahkiin._”

“Besides that!” Cadha snaps. “What village did you grow up in? Where’s your _family?_ What deities did you worship before everything _else _happened?”

When Miraak reaches for the mask, she doesn’t hold unto it. He doesn’t answer her questions, nor does he put the golden mask on. His eyes watch her carefully. “Irrelevant—"

_“No,_” she cuts him off. “If I am your _kiim—_It’s not irrelevant to me.”

She hates the word _kiim, _but she wants the point to get across.

“My _family?_” The man’s voice dips to a low, harsh tone. “Dead. Village? _Abolished._ Time has not fared my kin _favorably, kiim._ You would be wise to remember that.”

He pushes others back for a reason. It clicks in her mind. It is not solely arrogance and ego that fuels his actions, not merely the condescending perspective of _dov _and _dovahkiin _reigning supreme over “landwalkers.” It is the concept of alienating ones self from the world; a refusal to build or establish ties, attachments. It could be because of a fear of loss, but it could also be with the knowledge the Daedric Prince from before may intervene on what is deemed ‘unnecessary.’ But therein lays the complicated circumstances of the two’s sub-par relationship: Cadha is a tie to the landwalkers, a reminder he is not so shut out as he thinks. Cadha doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not, but it is what it is, and she will not let things continue the same while she remains in the picture.

“Miraak,” this time she speaks his name clearly, articulately. She grabs the sleeve of his robes. “What does your name mean?”

“Allegiance-Guide.” The man replies without pause.

_“Mir._ Allegiance. _Aak._ Guide.” Cadha repeats the words slowly, wrapping each one with as much respect she can muster. She lets go of Miraak’s sleeve and looks away. _“Mir-Aak. _Don’t leave me behind again.”

“I am not obligated to obey your orders, _kiim_.” Miraak dons his mask.

She waits until he’s begun to move away, then steps after him and wraps her arms around his torso. She can feel him freeze. He’s not used to _physical_ _contact_. Even as seconds go by, the man doesn’t relax; he remains tense. Cadha doesn’t budge. She tells him, firmly but gently, “—Your _kiim_’s name is _Cadha. _Cad-Ha. I don’t know what it means. But that’s _irrelevant._ I don’t need to know _my _name. I want to know yours. And theirs,” she doesn’t point or gesture, because she knows Miraak’s aware of the dragons he controls. Cadha presses her head against his back. “—You are a _guide, _right? Guide me through your language, Miraak.”

Part of her expects him to say no, but her mood brightens considerably when the man exhales softly and states. “Stubborn _kiim, _Cadha. Fine.”

The next few days are better. Miraak doesn’t leave beyond short departures that never last more than a few hours. The man isn’t one to say much, but if she asks a question then she gets an answer. Cadha makes most of the questions revolve around the four dragons; she picks up on the man’s reluctance to reflect on himself, though it doesn’t escape her how he briefly mentions a place called _Solstheim _in one discussion. Under Miraak’s guidance, she begins to learn bits and pieces of the _dov _tongue. Some words she already knows: _sos _for blood, _slen _for flesh, and _lok _for sky, but her vocabulary expands with words like _grah _for battle, _strun _for storm, and _fo _for cold.

She also learns about the names of the dragons, and what they each mean. _Relonikiv _means _dominate enlightenment_, which is a strange convention separate from two other dragons and their three-word names. _Sahrotaar_’s name can be split into the _dov _words of _sah-rot-aar. Sah _means _phantom, rot _means _word, _and _aar _translates to _servant, _but one out of loyalty and duty rather than enslavement and domination. _Kruziikrel_’s name follows the same convention as _Relonikiv, _splitting into the words _kruziik _and _rel. Kruziik _translates to _ancient _and _rel _translates to _dominate. _The last of the dragons names is _Krosulhah, _whose name repeats the pattern of _Sahrotaar_’s name and that of the naming convention for most _dov_. _Krosulhah _can be broken down into the words _kro-sul-hah, _which Miraak explains one night.

“—_Kro. _Sorcerer. _Sul. _Day, but also moment. _Hah. _Mind.” The masked man sits at the cave’s firepit a dozen yards in, cross-legged and astute in his observations of her notes.

Cadha states each word under breath as she adds it to the vocabularly she makes in an empty notebook. The quill pen and inkwell are useful, but she knows she will need more soon and that entails Miraak leaving for another outing at one point. She frowns and looks at him. “Your dragons… Their names each have to do with servitude or obedience. Whether it is a bent mind or… domination.”

“They are my followers.” Is Miraak’s blunt reply.

“If you were not the _First Dragonborn, _would they serve you?” Cadha crinkles her brows and squints at him.

He doesn’t reply.

When Miraak departs to fetch new supplies—among any number of other unpleasant things the man may partake in—he takes only Sahrotaar. Over the hours, Cadha musters up the courage to approach the three dragons present and ask them different questions.

“How did you wind up in his service?” Cadha inquires of Relonikiv at one point, the older and largest of the trio.

The dragon snorts at her. When she lowers her head to Cadha’s eye level, the woman manages not to flinch or jump backwards. Relonikiv snarls, “_Dovahkiin _bested me in _grah. _Battle. _Zu’u koraav ok zind. _I acknowledged his superior _thu’um._ I offered my _laas _in exchange for loyalty. _Mid._”

“A transaction.” Cadha says softly. She thanks Relonikiv and approaches Krosulhah next, the smallest of the dragons regardless of whether Sahrotaar is present.

Krosulhah’s form is nimble and fixed on hanging off the cavern’s entrance, tail curled and eyes veering wildly across the surrounding rocks and precipices. When Cadha approaches, the small dragon drops and flips their body mid-air. They flop on the ground and slither up to the ginger-haired half-Nord. Cadha swallows her fears and nods at them.

_“In kiim… Lok koraav hi. _I see you... What does the wife of Miraak want with _bonaar aar? _This humble servant?” Krosulhah’s tail flicks side-to-side. The club-like tuft at the end of their tail looks ready to bash brains in at a moments notice.

Cadha tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. “Well. I wanted to know why you… What made you start serving Miraak?”

“_Rok drun vahzen. _He showed me… truth.” Krosulhah sneers and circles the woman. It’s clear the dragon yearns for her flesh, because they salivate as they stare at Cadha. The woman backs away. Krosulhah _laughs _and climbs back up the cavern entrance. _“Sahlo! Zofaas! _Weak! Fearful!”

“—I know, I _know _I am! I’m trying not to be!” Cadha utters under her breath. She doesn’t pursue asking questions of the dragon. Instead, she seeks out Kruziikrel.

Ancient-Dominate soars the skies above. Cadha has no choice but to wait out the hours until the dark-scaled dragon swoops down and lands near her and a hanging Krosulhah. Kruziikrel’s long horns reflect the fading light of impending sunset; the dragon snorts at the sight of Cadha waiting patiently, but it doesn’t say anything. The largest of the dragons, Kruziikrel towers Cadha’s form by dozens upon dozens of feet. If Cadha had to put a number to it, she would pin Kruziikrel at _thirty-feet _in length and between twenty-to-thirty-feet in height. Cadha finds the height isn’t as scary as the vicious spines that run along the dragon’s backside from head to tail.

“Excuse me,” Cadha calls up. She flinches when the dragon strides forward and curls a tail around her body, effectively cutting off any escape routes. Kruziikrel’s beady eyes focus on the half-Nord while she freezes and stares. When the dragon says nothing, Cadha goes on. “—Could—Can you answer one of my questions?”

“A question for the _kiim do Miraak…_ The wife of the First Dragonborn.” The dragon’s ears twitch and shift direction, listening to the winds. Overhead, the sky darkens. Kruziikrel eyes Cadha impatiently.

She swallows. “What—What brought you to Miraak’s side? Why do you follow him?”

_“Rok kreh dii hadrim,_” the dragon spits the words with venom. Cadha flinches at the specks of saliva that land on her. She wipes her face and stiffens when Kruziikrel adds, “Miraak bent my will. _Nuz nu rok lost kiim…_”

Nearby, Krolsulhah begins to cackle. Cadha waits for either to offer translation, but neither do. She attempts to gently push Kruziikrel’s tail away, to climb under or duck around and return to the cave, but when the dragon’s tail suddenly snaps around her and pins her arms to her side, she gasps and snaps her head back to stare at Kruziikrel. “Release me! _Let me go!”_

Spines and sharp scales dig into her body, both into her exposed flesh and the thin enchanted robes. She feels the grip grow tighter and tighter; each breath she takes the dragon increases the crushing pressure enough for her lungs to begin burning and her eyes to water. Panic sets in; she begins to thrash and struggle against it. Conjuration magic crackles at her fingertips but her oxygen-deprived brain struggles to think of what to summon. Kruziikrel rears back and whips its tail into the rock, unfurling it at the last second to smack the half-Nord against the stone. A sickening crunch rings out; Cadha’s scream of pain pierces the air. She feels the broken throbs in her torso and finds the pain fades with a rush of chills down her body.

_“Kruziikrel, hi dreh daar fah nid?_” The words make all dragons stiffen. Great wings flap and Sahrotaar lands. The serpentine dragon is not the speaker; Cadha can hear the shuffle of Miraak’s boots. His voice carries from a distance. “—_Pahlok kod dov!” _

_“Kiim los ni ronit!” _Kruziikrel snaps back at the man. _“Ni aam!" _

Cadha hears the man stop and turn around. She can’t lift her head up, but she feels the overwhelming power of his thu’um when he sucks in a breath and roars, _“Gol hah dov, Kruziikrel! Daal wah golt!_”

Miraak stops at Cadha’s side. She hears him curse in tongues she doesn’t know nor recognize, the languages too rich and horrific in sound for her to understand them. He kneels and presses a hand to her wrist.

_“Laas.”_ The Dragonborn whispers. He exhales softly. Magic hums from his fingertips. She can only see the reflection of tainted gold light when it bounces off snow, but she feels hands on her back and groans when her flesh begins to mend internally. Bones set themselves and reattach. The coldness fades and with it comes pain, but it is temporary. When the magic fades—the man doesn’t seem exhausted in the slightest by extensive magicka use—Miraak utters sharply. _“Mey kiim._ _Hi paar dinok?_”

“I don’t,” she mumbles faintly. “—I don’t know those words yet.”

“Foolish. _Mey._” Miraak states. “_Hi paar dinok. _You desire death. _Do you?_”

“No.” Cadha’s eyes widen when she finally pushes herself up to a sitting position. The pool of blood sunken into snow and ice is horrendous. She understands the Dragonborn’s words then, because it reflects the morbid nature of what occurred. “I should be…”

“Dead.” Miraak stands.

Part of her wonders what he looks at that moment, beneath the mask. She blinks in surprise when he extends a hand and helps pull her to her feet. Cadha frowns. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you if I was?”

“Much easier.” The man replies curtly. He turns and begins walking away.

Cadha grits her teeth. She stares at his back and shouts. “Then why didn’t you let me die? It would’ve been in your favor, Miraak!”

“It would have,” he agrees without pause. “Been favorable.”

“No, that’s not—That’s not what I am asking. You know that.” She walks after him, catching up with ease when he stops. She eyes the bloodstains on the sleeves of his robes and gloves where he put healing hands on her prior, and she soaks in the sight of blood on his breeches from kneeling next to her.

_“Hi los dii kiim.” _The First Dragonborn utters. _“Zu’u fen dein hi nahlaas.”_

“Tell me what _nahlaas _means,” Cadha demands.

“Alive.”

She freezes and watches him walk into the cave. Her arms remain at her side. The thirty-eight-year-old woman ignores Krosulhah’s tiny cackles from the cave entrance, as well as the docile stare of Kruziikrel who lays sprawled across the ground. The snow picks up, but she doesn’t move.

Miraak doesn’t usually need to sleep. He’s vigilant about keeping watch, whether it be on the dragons, the outside, or the flames of a fire pit. When he does doze off, mask still on and back to the cave wall, Cadha decides to slip away and give the man a moment of respite. She goes to find Kruziikrel outside, still flat against the ground obediently. She doesn’t know if it can hear her, but she recalls how the phrase _gol hah _controlled her body. In that time, she could still hear the sounds around her even if she could not respond.

“Kruziikrel,” she says softly. She sits near where the dragon has shoved its head into the ground. “Your name means… _Ancient-Dominate. _It’s…” Cadha pauses. She wraps her arms around herself. “…Powerful.”

She peers into the dragon’s eyes. The dragon—the _dovah_—follows her with its gaze.

Cadha pauses. “You understand me, yes? You hear me. My words,” she considers, briefly, how the two could communicate. She points to her left. “—If you look this way—It means _yes. _If you look that way,” she points to her right. “It means _no._ Understand?”

When Kruziikrel looks to her left, she feels goosebumps rise across her skin. Cadha swallows.

_Okay. I can talk to you. _

“Were you trying to kill me?” She watches the dragon look left. Her eyes dim. “Do you want me dead?”

_Yes, _the dragon’s eyes say.

“Does Miraak want me dead?” Cadha presses.

The dragon looks to her right.

She feels her heart jump into her throat. “Do the other dragons want me dead?”

This time the dragon does not look either directions. Cadha wonders if that means unsure, or maybe. She bites her lip and holds out her hand. Conjuration magic crackles and she silently calls forth a massive atronach made of ice. The woman orders it to stand on one side of the dragon and block part of the winds howling faintly. The dragon watches her, still as stone. Cadha looks back at Kruziikrel’s face and frowns.

“I don’t want you dead.” She admits faintly. “You or the others. Even if you are the most heinous creatures I’ve met—And I have met a Daedric Prince.” She shuts her eyes and sighs.

Kruziikrel says nothing.

“It must be a punishment… For you to be like this,” Cadha’s eyes move to the rest of the dragon’s form, bound in place by the monstrous power of Miraak’s thu’um. Her eyes dim again. “Dragons… _Dov. _You like the… _lok. _The sky. So being on the ground… It must be a punishment. Am I right?”

Kruziikrel’s eyes flicker to her left. _Yes. _

“I’m sorry.” Cadha expresses sincerely. She lifts a hand to Kruziikrel’s snout. “—It’s my fault you’re like this. Forced to the ground.”

The dragon’s eyes shift to her right.

Cadha pauses. “No?”

Kruziikrel’s gaze remains on her right.

“No.” Cadha repeats the message. Her brows furrow. She pulls back, pushes herself up, and mentally commands her atronach to stay standing where it is. She leaves Kruziikrel on the ground without another word and walks back into the cave. Miraak is awake by the time she returns; she walks to his side and sits next to him. She can’t see his expression behind the mask, but she imagines he is amused when she states. “I need a favor.”

The man doesn’t respond.

“Miraak.” The woman repeats. “I am asking you as your _kiim. Ronit. _Equal.”

“Speak. No one is stopping you.” Miraak states.

“Release Kruziikrel from your shout,” Cadha looks at his mask. The golden mask gleams in the light of the flames. “Let the _dov _come inside. It’s freezing out there.”

_“No.”_ Miraak dismisses the thought without pause. “The _dov _must understand the arrogance of his actions.”

Cadha makes to stand. No one stops her. She balls her hands into fists and snaps. “—Then I will do the same. I provoked his actions.”

“_Kiim,_” the man calls up before she can go. She looks down at him. Her brows furrow in confusion when he pulls himself to his feet. Miraak faces her. “Do not defend a grounded dragon. _Gol dov _is not worthy of thought. He will be recognized as of the _lok _after he accepts his punishment.”

Cadha squints at him. “I am not a _dov _or a _dovahkiin, _Miraak. I do not hold the same haughty superiority as you five. I,” she steps closer, unafraid of the Dragonborn. She stares at his mask, at where she believes his eyes hide behind, and adds sharply. “—Am allowed to _care _about others. And I do. And I _will_. I don’t follow your old ways. I follow my own.”

“That will get you killed.” Miraak says.

“Then _Sovngarde_ awaits me.” Cadha growls. She turns and walks out of the cave. It is at the cave entrance she hears it, the man’s voice far clearer than before. What makes her stop is her name, spoken in a tone that makes goosebumps rise across her arms.

“Cadha.” Miraak calls across the cave. When she looks, his mask is in one hand. She meets his gaze and stares at the dark, storming green irises; he holds worlds untold and lives unspoken in their depths. “You almost died.”

“I did.” She acknowledges sharply.

“You still care about the _dov_?” The man asks briskly. “Who wants your head on a spit?”

“I do.” At the man’s silence, Cadha’s eyes narrow and she _hisses_ the words. “Is that so hard to believe, Miraak?”

“You are foolish.”

“Then call me a fool,” the cold makes her eyes water, but she stares him down, unafraid and brazen. “I care about you, don’t I? You wretched, arrogant man—I’m a fool for caring about the people around me, caring about these loathsome dragons, but caring about _you?_ I’m the biggest _mey _out here. The foolish woman!”

She watches the words sink in. Without the mask to hide behind, Miraak’s expression is very clear to her. She stares at him when his eyes widen, a surreal and genuine moment of surprise on his face. Then the respite of the moment is gone. His eyes become dark and cloudy once more, marred by Hermaeus Mora’s power and the thoughts swirling in his head. Cadha doesn’t know what he thinks, but her eyes remain trained on him. When he starts walking, she doesn’t budge. She glares at him when he strides to her and stops at her side.

“Forgive me, Cadha. _Dii kiim._” He states softly.

It takes her by surprise, both the use of her name and the words in question. She stills with the wind whipping at her back, the snow falling heavily outside. She watches the Dragonborn lift one hand. She holds her breath as the man caresses her cheek with his free hand. Cadha feels heat creep into her face and she struggles to make sense of what he's doing, barely able to breathe his name. "Miraak?"

_“Zu’u lost folaas; hi los nid mey._ Do not call yourself a fool,” Miraak utters before he leans down and kisses her.

For a second, Cadha forgets his arrogance and vile association with a Daedric Prince, his callousness and ego. She loses herself in the warmth that spreads over her chest, the feel of his lips against hers and the need that comes with it. Miraak's mask drops to the ground. His other hand rises and he cradles her cheeks and kisses her deeper. The want that comes, that _he_ conveys, it is unbearably desperate, and it calls to her. She wants to know everything about him, about the kin who no longer walk the earth, about the tattoo across his chest and the depths of his eyes come spring, the hopes, the fears, the _desires _of the Dragonborn and everything in-between. 

She can feel him tremble. It's very clear to her now how badly the Dragonborn craves touch, contact, _intimacy, _and how he tries to deal with it by pushing others away. His hands shake even as he kisses her. When he draws back, his eyes hold a desperation that physically aches her to see. In a second, the only thing Cadha wants is to distract him from the thoughts responsible. Her hands come up to his jaw and she feels his eyes snap on her. She slowly inches forward and leans up to kiss him. His lips are soft and nervous, but he responds and lowers his hands to her waist. He runs his fingers slowly down the curves of her robes. She exhales sharply when his hands stop at her hips. The hesitation lingers. 

The fingers shudder when he finally begins to dip beneath, touching at her skin in featherlight grazes. Cadha holds her breath as the man's hands move up her torso. Part of her expects him to go further, to escalate, to _feel_, but he does not. His hands move to her bare back under her clothes. She feels her face light up a soft cherry-red as Miraak's fingers trace circles on her skin. She draws back and Miraak shifts his head to her neck, inhaling her scent and pressing long, sensual kisses against her collarbone and neck.

"It's been so long," Miraak's words are so soft Cadha almost thinks she imagined them. He hisses against her. "So, so long..."

When her hands go to his outer robes, his shirt, his _skin_, Cadha feels him groan. She gasps when he sucks a sweet spot on her neck. Her grip on the man's torso tightens and Miraak's breath hitches. He draws back to stare her in the eye with a gaze unlike anything she's seen of him before. Miraak pulls her into another kiss, rougher and more obscene. His hands dive beneath her clothes and he starts to map out every inch of her skin with his fingers, hissing in triumph whenever she leans against him for support. The man massages her flesh and plants his lips along her jawline, trailing back to her neck before he moves up again. He spins the two around and presses her to the cave wall, where she finds he pulls one of her legs unto his hip. She can feel his heat through his clothes. The proximity makes her moan aloud. Miraak hisses again when her hands return to his face, his lips appealing as they are soft. Her entire body is aflame with a deep, brooding desire, and she voices it in one name.

_"Miraak._" Cadha whispers.

The Dragonborn freezes. He draws back and clenches his eyes shut. _"Zu'u fen ni dreh daar... fin et'Ada fen ni mindoraan. Rok fen krii hi."_

"I don't," She mumbles the words, unable to think clearly with her heart pounding in her ears. "I don't know. Words. Those words."

"You... wouldn't. No." Miraak curses softly, not at her but at himself. She stares in confusion, at the mess of a man, while he releases her and moves away. He picks up his mask and dons it without delay. His hands shake. For a short while, Cadha isn't sure he will say anything at all about what occurred, until Miraak looks back at her and states faintly, "Cadha... _Gol hah_; sleep by the fire. Kruziikrel must face his punishment alone. Tomorrow we leave for Riften.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been mostly using thuum.org lately for helping with dragon speech  
(also just realizing i keep mixing up altmer with aldmer)  
hope this all makes sense !!!!  
pronouns for dragons:  
all of them use it!  
relonikiv also uses she  
krosulhah also uses they  
sahrotaar and kruziikel also use he/they  
yah
> 
> only thirteen chapters left... :0  
this is the last one focused on this party  
thank u all for reading ^ _ ^


	37. the power of denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things begin to make less and less sense for sahkriimir in the falkreath sanctuary; their mistakes are piling up and the madness settles in.

What they see is a land of eons ago, from a time when dragons ruled and landwalkers spoke of them with fear. It is a time they cannot remember, for they know their mind is fragile under the overwhelming evidence of their Lord’s madness. In the dream, they see snow fall gently from the sky while the ancient expanse of the earth stretches from one end of the horizon to the other. Gray clouds shield the sky from the ground’s unworthy schemes and conundrums. There is no sense of peace, only a melancholy bitterness that stings their chest.

Around them is an eon of bones and splintered limbs, crushed scales and decadent skulls half-rotten in places. The place they stand is one big enough for a dragon to sit upon, but no dragon is present. They stand as they should with their arms at their side and the somber mood mystifying them into silence. They stand, they watch, they wait, and the dream contorts around them to the point it was always meant to come back to: that of a beautiful white figure, a figure of _them, _a dragon of the sky and one worthy of all they cannot be anymore, falling and crashing into the bones, dust, and sinew. The ground shudders and groans in pain from the impact of the divine figure’s descent.

The sight of sudden decay brings morose to their lips, tugging them down to a sharp frown as they stride forward and climb over the limbs and legacies of dragon skeletons and dragon corpses and all that once was _dragon_. They do not know the words, or they do but cannot speak them even in dreams, but they move forward nonetheless and push and shove and weave around the dead beasts of the sky. Time is irrelevant; they know nothing of the sort as they strive onward and the body of the great white dragon continues to waste away. They know this dream and how it ends: it is one they have lived through before, where they reach the body and sob at its fallen form and the decomposition that ensues.

But this time the body does not rot as it did before. They pause when they come upon it, admiring its length and spiraling tail that remains curved even in death. They gaze upon the golden whiskers and the fading sheen of the dead. Under their watch, snow-white scales begin to crumble into nothing, until only a skeleton remains, and the dragon’s once-bright eyes seep into a putrid liquid that evaporates into the air. Cracks appear along the bones and before their eyes they watch as white mist rushes from the cracks and transforms into a howling, ebbing gale. They freeze in place as the mist impales their skin and seeps into their surface, cutting through and piercing every inch of their dream’s form while they fail to muster a cry of pain.

The rush of power that fills them makes them want to scream and beg for mercy, for someone to intervene. It is not how the dream is supposed to go. They are meant to wake up by now, wake up before the absorption of the soul consumes their being and shatters their brain. They can feel the ethereal pull, the wants of divine entropy faced with the Order of a god keeping them under lock and key. They can feel their own self just out of reach, a mere aspect lost in layers of madness and discord. Their very soul wants to split and separate into different halves from the intense pressure building in their brain.

“You can never be sure what is real. None of us can. We perceive what we perceive, but it varies from you to me.” They hear the call of their master, the judgement offered by an Imperial man with deep laugh lines and glowing white eyes.

_The entropy. _They stare at him through clenched teeth, listen through bulging eyes, and shudder with hoarse breaths.

“You are surprised. I like it! A solid look for a solid soul. Perhaps—Not so solid?” Sheogorath crosses one leg over the other where he sits on top of a dragon’s skull. They feel sweat rolls off their forehead in waves; it makes the Prince purse his lips and grimace. “Oh, _calm down. _I’m too busy to mess with you right now. Besides,” the Prince looks to the skeleton of the great white dragon. “Very soon… This will be but a memory. A memory you must accept. You are capable, yes, but inexplicably cunning! I understand what we are, you and I, what we _share. _The Change in our souls… it is a terribly beautiful destruction, a sentience of power.”

“I don’t understand.” They mean to whisper, but suddenly they sit next to him on the great white dragon’s skeleton. They are there now; it is what it is and they do not question it.

“I think… Accepting what we are… It’s more than what we are not, yes? What we cannot be? You must accept responsibility.”

“I have! I have,” They stand on the dragon’s spine and jab a finger at the Prince, for he stands next to them and overshadows them in inches, but not power. Their eyes narrow when he tilts his head to one side, he is amused. Their excuse follows. “I accept responsibility for who I am, my Lord! I _promise_ you!”

“You have broken promises before. Many times. Without realizing it.” The Daedra replies curtly. “You underestimate the power of denial.”

“I am not denying anything—Lord Sheogorath,” their eyes widen and they reach for him but the Prince shrugs off their grasp and turns away, the staff of Wabbajack clutched tightly in both hands. “Please, my Lord—_Please believe me!” _

Sheogorath taps the staff to the corpse. Flesh begins to unwind and rewind and reverse unto the body, with nerves, fats, tissues, and muscles molding together into a refined set of tendons, arteries, and bloody pulp of a scaleless beast. They stare in horror as the scales pop back into place, claws regrow, and eyes fall from the sky into a socket. Sheogorath’s smile is candid as he looks fondly at the dragon pre-decay. “I admire the work you did, I do, for it brought you to me and I to you, but this is not the same as you think it is. Look closer, my Champion. I speak as all of me this time, because my crown and myself demand a piece of your mind. You must accept it. Understand your lies to yourself. You can’t hide from you forever!”

“Stop this, Lord Sheogorath,” They run fingers through their head, long and wicked and wild strands of gold. They pause and ogle their hands, staring at the white scales marred in gold and the talons that exceed the length of any human nail. They look from hands, which is them, to the body on the ground, which should be them. “What is this, my Lord? What is this madness?”

“The beginning of an end. You should reconsider what you know as _real, _truth,” the Prince dissipates into a million beautiful white lights, leaving them alone and looming over the dead white dragon. Sheogorath’s voice repeats in their head. "Your memories are a guise, my Champion. It's time to unveil them. Stop pretending you are in control."

They stare at the body on the ground. As it starts to decay again, they reach out and touch it, only to leap back in horror. The corpse’s eyes shoot open and the rotting head pulls itself up and leers at the dreamer. A crackled, electrified voice sends cold chills down their spine as a dead voice whispers, _“You slaughter your kin without reason!” _

Sahkriimir wakes up with tears in their eyes. The dream doesn’t fade for several minutes, burnt into their subconscious and consciousness while they stare at the ceiling of the Dark Brotherhood’s bunk hall. When they wrangle their feelings and rebuild composure, the Listener sits up and pushes themself to stand. They stagger a moment from disorientation while voices of other awake assassins fill the background, coming from the connected dining-hall. They look at their hands and turn them over, eying up every detail from their palms to the texture of their human muscles, while they will their heart to calm.

_Dreams are just dreams. The madness of Lord Sheogorath. The madness of Lord Sheogorath. It… It is the reason. _They wipe their eyes and breathe deeply.

They miss Brynjolf terribly. If they were at the Guild, they imagine he would be back by then. No doubt, he would, and they could have just curled up at his side and in his arms until the feelings haunting them dissipated. He would likely make a joke of some sort, but one as gentle as the smiles he reserves for them. It could be peaceful, nice even, but they are not at the Guild and no fishy smells of the cistern greet their nostrils. They find a clean shrouded uniform to change into and nimbly finish pulling it on just in time to see Rune come springing up the stairs to the bunk hall. He gawks at them and covers his eyes. They frown. “I was finished before you came up.”

“Right—Right. Hey, I just—Don’t want any misconceptions. I got enough to deal with between the tension of Astrid over this Listener stuff and this assignment she’s putting Veezara and I on. You know,” the Imperial strides to them and sits on a bunk adjacent their own. They sit on their cot, if only to reflect the same relaxed stature he exhibits while he blabs on. “—I think Veezara is _fine, _as an assassin, but frankly his communication skills make me want to stab myself sometimes.”

“He was better in the previous cycle.” Sahkriimir utters softly. Their eyes narrow. “Perhaps you should mention that to Astrid. She may… Reconsider sending you, or assign you a different assassin.”

“That’s a thought.” Rune rubs his chin. He hasn’t shaved in days, the man has the scruffy beginnings of a beard.

“I am going to pray.” Sahkriimir hesitates before they stand. “Do you want to join me?”

“Not right now. I want to nap.” The man waves them off and flops on his cot. “Aetherius forbid Niruin interrupts me… If you see the man, warn him that I’ll cut off fingers if he wakes me up.”

Sahkriimir agrees to, but only to speed up the process of getting to the sanctuary. They need the Night Mother’s comfort. It is something they must prove they are worthy to earn, because their sin lingers on their shoulder spite of what Cicero and Lucien Lachance supposedly informed the rest of the Brotherhood. They do not know if they _really _spoke the Binding Words, or if the Night Mother _really _intends to keep them as second Listener, or if all of this is another horrible dream full of things they don’t understand or comprehend. They have had many of those dreams lately, each as vile as the last and with increasing complication. They detest sleep, to the point they occasionally stay up late enough to fall asleep mid-job.

Astrid continues to lack respect for them, maintaining their regime of strict clean-up duties and occasional training since the _Listener Two _incident. That is okay; their only concern is Mullokah, and the young boy appears fine when they check on him periodically. He not much taller than before spite of claims he and Clucky have _both _grown an entire centimeter.

To their relief, they don’t run into Astrid on the way to the Night Mother’s sanctuary. They listen at the door for a jester’s melody, or his babbles, or even the tell-tale signs of rants and raves over something frivolous, but they hear nothing. They knock gently on the door, but no response comes. Satisfied it is empty, Sahkriimir pushes the doors open and slips inside. They shut the doors behind them and look across the very room Lucien Lachance made his demands on behalf of the Night Mother only days ago.

“Night Mother. Unholy matron.” They kneel in front of the beautifully polished coffin, and then they clasp their hands together. “I… I am here, Night Mother, as one of your two ears.”

It’s been a long time since they went through any kind of commune with the unholy matron. Officially, they can only recall wisps of voices that resemble hers during events like the night they met Aventus Aretino—Mullokah—in Windhelm. They yearn to hear the unholy matron’s voice, to write the contracts forged in rich red blood and to deliver proof of their worth to Astrid.

Nothing comes. Sahkriimir spends an hour waiting before they accept the Night Mother has nothing to say to them. When they make to stand, they turn around and find a set of vivid hazel eyes but two feet away. When their own dark eyes follow the newcomer, they sputter and back up—narrowly missing running backward into the Night Mother’s coffin—from the jester. “—Keeper.”

“Hmmm. Good _evening, _Listener. Should Cicero call thee Listener Two? Listener Too! A Listener, a Listener, for me, for you,” the man hums thoughtfully and shrugs. His motley looks clean, but Sahkriimir doesn’t believe for a second Cicero took it off to wash it. If anything, it looks like Cicero and the motley took a bath somewhere. His hair is still damp but the subtle curliness of the red hair is hard to miss. When the man catches their staring, he huffs loudly and declares. “Cicero does not _appreciate _ogling—"

“…Right,” Sahkriimir averts their gaze. They still struggle to find words when around the jester, as it only takes one look to bring back old memories of the past universe. “Sorry.”

“—But Cicero does not mind if Listener Too wants to admire! Oh, ho, _ho, _Cicero is very particular about his looks!” The Keeper begins to rattle off a list of ways he keeps himself in utterly preposterously-impossible shape.

It’s one of the moments springing old memories on them, because they struggle to speak and instead find their body awkwardly standing while their brain flails on the inside. There is so much to say, to want to talk about, but they say none of it and instead wait for the man to finish his tangent. He does, six minutes later, but not without darting closer into their personal space and showing them how clean his nails are. His nails are very clean, Sahkriimir believes it, but it is hard to see them when Cicero refuses to take off his gloves.

Eventually, they get the Keeper to focus on someone else—Rune, when the man strides in two hours later to pray to the unholy matron just as they have. Sahkriimir ducks out of the sanctuary and exhales a shaky breath. It is not that they dislike spending time with Cicero; the problem is that they _still enjoy _spending time with him. Now that they are Listener, the jester is nigh-identical to who he was in the past-cycle, only not nearly straightforward due to the differing circumstances in which they met. They can’t stand it, and they despise that a part of them wonders how much like the man they called their fool Cicero really is.

They know dragons take multiple mates, whoever is found worthy, but they are not dragon anymore and they do not know how Brynjolf feels about it. They do not want to hurt him. They have done that enough on their own, without any jesters involved.

Unfortunately for them, they bump into Astrid shortly after sneaking away from the sanctuary. The blond-haired Nord smiles and calls them to follow her as she marches across the length of the sanctuary to the entrance hall. There, she sits Sahkriimir down in one chair while Astrid looms over the opposite side of the table. The leader of the Dark Brotherhood tilts her head to one side and states curtly. “—You have zero authority telling other members of the Brotherhood to not go on assignments.”

Sahkriimir’s eyes widen. _Rune. _

“I don’t appreciate attempts to undermine _my _decisions. If you were a veteran of this Brotherhood, had some kills behind your name like Gabriella or Festus? I might consider. But, my dear, you _aren’t. _Frankly,” Astrid’s eyes narrow on their own. “—You are barely a member of this Brotherhood at all, Listener or not.”

They want to offer a defense, an explanation, perhaps a string of excuses, but they know it is useless. They go with acceptance and bow their head. “What must I do to… make it up to you?”

It is how they get tasked with the entirety of outside chores and jobs. They spend the next day gathering new firewood, hunting ingredients for Babette, and sneaking up on game for Nazir to use in the dining hall’s cauldrons. It’s a miserable, cold time, and one only Festus and Rune bother to thank her for. Sahkriimir notes that it _does _seem to work, whatever Rune said to Astrid, as Veezara disappears a day later and Gabriella and Arnbjorn accompany the Shadowscale instead of Rune. They unfortunately get zero time with Mullokah and the chicken; they bump paths occasionally and listen with pride whenever the boy fills them in on his and Clucky’s latest accomplishment, but there is never time for actual conversation.

It wears on them. The world begins to feel like a fog of routine activities, all of which are too exhausting to think through but too time-consuming to do otherwise. Sahkriimir wants to scream and belt out curses by the fifth day of it. Astrid finally relents in dismissing them from their duties, after Rune volunteers to take over for an entire day to give them a chance to rest. They give the other Listener a grateful glance as they haul themself out of the entrance hall and deep into the sanctuary. They mean to find the bunk hall and take the nap of a century, but instead their steps lead to the Night Mother’s sanctuary.

They nervously listen for any hint of the jester but, hearing nothing, Sahkriimir enters the sanctuary and silently shuts the door. They cross the room and peek at preservative oils and herbs. The smell of mudcrab chitin is nauseating, but they feel genuinely relieved to know it must have worked, because part of the chitin is gone, and they haven’t heard the jester have a meltdown anywhere in the sanctuary yet. Their eyes soften at the thought. _Cicero. _

They miss their fool. The past cycle’s jester, with his stubborn streak and whimsical dancing. They haven’t forgotten the steps, nor have they forgotten the tune he would sing to pass the time, to go with their dancing, or to accomplish his work. Sahkriimir hums it faintly under breath as they return to the Night Mother’s coffin and sit in front of it. Even if she has nothing to tell them, they hope she enjoys the melody.

When it ends, they freeze at the sound of another voice continuing it. Their eyes widen and they don’t dare look back, because they already know who hums the notes, and they already know the same bloody pair of hazel-brown eyes is on them. It doesn’t appear to matter, because a few seconds after they stop, they hear the jester state quietly. “Cicero does not share that song with anyone.”

“You did with me.” Sahkriimir confesses quietly. They stand; when they turn around they see Cicero holding great armfuls of aromatic herbs in hand. The scents fade in and out. They frown and gesture at it. “Did the mudcrab chitin not suffice?”

“No, no, _no,_ it was splendid. Cicero greatly enjoyed applying it to Mother,” the man replies without pause. “But…” He sets the herbs down on a shelf. "Cicero thinks, he thinks, thinks, and thinks! So much thinking about thinks, Listener. About..."

They see the way his eyes flicker with different emotions as Cicero the jester and Cicero the assassin go back and forth with the other. Over _what_ is beyond them. They frown and decide it isn’t for them to know. “I’ll give you space to keep, Keeper.”

“Wait. Listener.” It is the assassin that interjects, striding to them with a sharp gaze and intense stare. “Did this… _dance… _Did it come from me? Did I teach you?”

“You did. Whether you believe it or not.” They look to the side. They can feel the faint blush on their cheeks, embarrassed to speak of it. Sithis knows it took far, far too many hours to get to the point where they are amicable at dancing.

His smile is brilliant, brighter than the sun. The man could stab a thousand Hold Guards and be chipper as winter is frozen, “Cicero has _question! _A question, yes, yes, _hmmm,_ about Listener Too! A question, yes?”

“What?” Sahkriimir pauses.

“Listener Too,” the jester pauses and picks through words, a feat unlike the _jester_ and far more fitting of the assassin Cicero also is. “—Cicero is… _curious. _Hmmm. Why would the Keeper share such silly things with Listener Too? In a time before Cicero understands? Did Listener Too and sweet, kind Cicero—”

“We were… involved with one another, I guess you could say that.” They mumble quietly. Sahkriimir shuts their eyes and inhales deeply. They want the truth to be out, to move on so that… They open their eyes and blink when they hear Cicero’s footsteps ring. They look up and stare up at the jester, who is much, much closer than he was before. His eyes lock with theirs.

“Cicero would like to know,” the Keeper pauses. “Why Listener Too is terrible at dancing if Cicero _supposedly _taught them? Cicero is a wonderful teacher!”

They stare. It wasn’t the question they were expecting, but it makes them defensive. They narrow their eyes and size him up. “I am not _terrible _at dancing!

“Prove it.”

It’s enough to make them huff, take his hand, and put their free hand on his shoulder. They stare him in the eyes, stubborn as a dragon that fell from the sky, and let him lead. His grin is widespread and vivid. He maintains eye contact as the two step and move and cross in circles around the sanctuary room. It’s nostalgic and it makes their chest ache but the joy that comes from dancing with _him _temporarily numbs the feeling—until they trip. Their feet get tangled in the jester’s and they gawk and plummet to the ground, taking Cicero with them.

When they open their eyes and look up, they find he is but a breath away, having landed _underneath _them. They hold their breath and stare. The sensation of having the jester so close again makes their heart race and pound, the world forgotten for a moment. Sahkriimir’s voice strains as they whisper, “Is that—Does that prove it?”

Cicero’s eyes soften. “—Perhaps Cicero was wrong about the silly Listener’s dancing.”

“You were.” They grumble faintly.

“Let me make up for it.”

They lose control when his lips press against theirs. Thoughts of everything melt under the sweet, sweet entropy that overwhelms their senses. They missed him so badly, they wanted him so long, and now he’s with them and he wants them in this universe just as he did the past and their brain can’t handle the different aspects of it. They cup his face and caress his jawline while his hands and arms go to their torso. It’s a greedy, bold move, but the jester is full of wants and he displays it in stolen kisses and long, lengthy touches. Sithis, they have wants. They have so many of them. They want proximity, the closeness of physical intimacy, and the feeling of being loved, wanted, and desired, what with Cicero, with Brynjolf…

_Brynjolf. _They freeze and shove the jester off them, face flushed and breathing heavy. Their mind races a million different directions as horror sets in, mixed with the breathless confusion on Cicero’s face. They open their mouth to say something, to explain, but they find they can’t come up with words. They blurt out a, _“I can’t!”_

Sithis thank Rune for existing, because the man’s timing is impeccably convenient enough for them to slip out the door and use him as a buffer between explaining to the jester and acknowledging they have just fucked up a thousand different ways.

The first Listener finds them some time later, when they are a mess in one of the sanctuary’s back rooms. Sahkriimir’s hands shake violently and their entire body trembles where they sit in one corner, plopped in dust and surrounded by cobwebs. They hear his footsteps first, and for a second their body locks up in horror that it might be the jester coming to talk to them and ask what in Oblivion just happened. They wouldn’t blame Cicero for being furious or confused or upset or any number of things; they took his hand dancing, they could have left, they _should _have left because for all the Cicero of this world knows—they just up and bounced from the room, from what he likely perceives was a gleefully mutual and intimate moment. They don’t have an explanation for him, not yet, and perhaps not ever.

It is the nature of Lord Sheogorath’s _madness _that stability flashes and lurches to an impeccably entropy-filled end, breaking down in self-sabotage and erraticness. Sahkriimir holds their head in their hands, back to one wall.

When the door opens they hear Rune’s grunt and faint words. “—You missed a spot, there. That, or these spiders make webs fast. Or-Are those plants?"

“I messed up.” Sahkriimir whispers. They won’t cry, not after crying out all their tears so many different ways the hours prior. “Rune—_I fucked up.”_

“I figured that. After, y’know, you ditched our Keeper. Got to listen to his heartbroken tangent for a while. He doesn’t use a lot of colorful words, prefers euphemisms, jokes, and ridiculous metaphors.” The Imperial rubs the back of his head. He sighs and sits near Sahkriimir. “I hate to put you on the spot, but you dragged me into this. Did you—”

_“I didn’t sleep with him!”_ Sahkriimir snaps. They clamp a hand over their mouth and curse muffled words.

Rune blinks. “…Hey, I believe you. I doubt either of you are fast enough to get dressed that quickly.”

“You’d be surprised.” They mumble. Their shoulders slump. “I…”

“By Sithis, you actually _did_ do something with the jester? What in the Void’s end compelled that? He’s—He’s _Cicero_—” Rune tries to maintain his composure, but it’s obvious part of him finds the situation quite funny, and mortifying, and a bunch of other things he tries to hide by clearing his throat and looking away. “—Nevermind. Look, we aren’t really… We’re Brotherhood. I’m telling you, from one Brotherhood member to the next, Listener to Listener, we’re _adults _here and you need to be accountable for yourself. That goes for telling Brynjolf, whenever you see him next.”

“I won’t lie to him.” Sahkriimir states.

_“But you would, and you have, and you’re going to,”_ Sheogorath smiles politely at them where he sits, dressed in the red-and-black armor of the Dark Brotherhood_. “You’re lying to yourself as we speak, my Champion.”_

“I am not! I’m not! My Lord!” They retort. Their eyes are wide as saucers and they scramble to their feet, only to flinch backward when Sheogorath does the same. “My Lord—Please—Believe me!”

“What is the matter with you?” When they blink, they see not Sheogorath but Rune standing with his arms crossed. The man stares, dark brown hair an unkempt, tussled mess around his face. “Sahkriimir! Hey, Listener!”

“What’s... wrong with me?” They hold their head in their hands. “Rune, what’s happening to me? _What am I doing?”_

“I—I don’t know?” The other Listener frowns. Concern wells up in his eyes. “You really want me to repeat today’s events?”

“No, no, Sithis, no.” Sahkriimir looks around. They spot a sheathed short sword at Rune’s waist and points at it. “I need that.”

“No.” Rune huffs.

“Please,” the Listener begs. “I need to know I'm not lying! I know who I am! I know me! _I know me!"_

“I think you need to lie down—Get some water—Maybe talk to Babette? Or,” Rune’s words are cut off when Sahkriimir shoves him aside. They hear him call as they bolt from the room, “Hey! Hey, _Sahkriimir!”_

The world is not what it seems. The Dark Brotherhood is a place of refuge for the heirs of Sithis, but Sahkriimir sees it as nothing of the sort. Their vision becomes tainted in melodic spheres of orange and green, dizzying waves of repeating objects, and a total loss of reality. Corridors stretch for eternity, candles fizzle and crack, and the roar of the waterfall becomes a disembodied echo from all directions. They find their breathing plummets to short, shallow pants. Their mind spins and twirls, dips and dives, all to the steps of an unspoken melody that is far from the tune they know by heart. They find a weight crashes into their form and they claw at the walls trying to keep themself up. Their knees give, they hit the ground, and they growl and gurgle and hiss at the Everything that surrounds them.

Somethings, multiple ones, grab them. They thrash and struggle and kick, but while their body connects with physical Something, they can’t overpower the pairs of arms and grip of hands. Their body becomes weighed down by sheer lack of energy. They hiccup and wheeze for air as Somethings pull them up and down, left and right through jutting tunnels, dark halls, and into a room they don’t know but recognize. Bodies shove them unto cold stone and they groan in pain. Things take hold of their wrists and ankles and restraints pin them to the stone, wrapped not only around their joints but stretching across their entire torso. Their slight shaking doesn’t free them.

“…Oblivion’s Mist.” A voice comes in, quaint and distant yet very, very close. “I didn’t believe it grew in this environment. The long winter must have encouraged it.”

_Oblivion makes up the planes of… existence. The et’Ada call their own. Lord Sheogorath’s plane is… the Shivering Isles. _

“Will it kill them? I’m not wasting resources to keep them alive if they’ll die anyways, Babette.”

_And Lord Jyggalag’s plane is… is… Lord Jyggalag’s plane… _

Shrieking, hearty laughter pierces their ears. “—Astrid, you doubt my skills as an alchemist? _Rude—"_

_Lord Jyggalag has a plane on Oblivion. _

_“—But,_ for your information, they will be fine. Oblivion’s Mist is a hallucinogenic. It releases spores into the air. Utterly useless for a poison due to taking _hours _of constant exposure to go into effect. They’ll have an experience, but nothing permanent. Give them a day or so and our other Listener will be back on their feet.”

_The… Crystal Lattice?_

“Good, good. I’ll get Festus on weeding out the plant.”

_And I know that because… Why do I know that? How can I know that?_

By the time the plant wears off on their body, they are a wreck of tired nerves and mental exhaustion. The world slowly wrings itself back into focus; they find their body remains restrained to a stone table they recognize as one Babette normally conducts work on. A figure comes into focus and they blink and stare at Babette’s small, youthful-appearance. The vampire remains every bit the sneaky, tricky assassin they remember her as. She smiles a smile with two fangs jutting out. “—Ah, good. Your body processed it sooner than I thought.”

“Why am I tied to a table?” Sahkriimir rests their head against the table in question and groans.

“Your body doesn’t like Oblivion’s Mist. Most don’t. In fact, only a _handful _of breathing individuals can resist it. I’m,” the vampire pauses and begins to untie large, complicated knots. Sahkriimir gratefully sits up afterward; Babette huffs and plops in a stone chair. “—Surprised, really. A bit amused? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be exposed to an entire dose of Oblivion’s Mist spores? Hours of non-stop contact or inhalation, Listener. I haven’t seen a case like yours in years, and for _good _reason.”

“Sorry for wasting your time.” They grimace and rub their wrists where the rope previously hung.

“—No, no, honestly, it wasn’t _that _big of a deal. You… Were very funny to watch. Gurgling insults, cussing us out, threatening to snip fingers off! You even tried to call our dear Brother’s name, Lucien, for help. When he hears of this, I wonder if he’ll be pissed or amused to know you went through every variation of _Lucifer_ possible and didn’t think to say _Lucien_?” Babette runs a hand through her brown hair. She smiles and shrugs. “I think he’ll be amused. Not enough to smile, but he has telltale ways of indicating his mood.”

Sahkriimir squints. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Why would it? Lucien doesn’t make anyone feel better.” The vampire retorts dryly. She hums and looks to the side. “—I _will _say, something good came of this. Oblivion’s Mist is a notorious difficulty to get rid of once it starts growing somewhere. It doesn’t grow in most climates, but when it does—I pity the region. Your exposure may have saved us from having to abandon this sanctuary. I think that’s something to smile over.” Babette nods once.

“Does this mean I can go?” They squint at Babette and pause. “Sithis, I don’t even know what time it is.”

“Four in the morning hours.” The vampire raises a brow.

“—That long?!” Sahkriimir gawks. “Why is this body utterly useless for—For everything?”

“I would offer to turn you, but I don’t think that’s a good fit. You, vampirism… Not to mention it is very messy, and not everyone survives the ordeal.” Babette smiles apologetically. She truly looks like a kid at times, with the bright gleam of mischief in her dark eyes and her inconspicuous smile.

They stand and narrowly avoid falling over. Cramps shoot up their legs and they curse loudly. Babette snorts and shakes her head while they shoot daggers with their stare. “—Why don’t my legs work?”

“You were restrained to a bed for hours. Not moving does that. But it was necessary—You wanted to kill half of us to Aetherius and back, swore to put Rune’s head on a spike. Called him a Daedra—_Sheogorath?”_ The vampire raises a brow. At Sahkriimir’s pale face, she sighs and shakes her head. “I won’t ask questions, but that’s your answer. Give it time, do some stretches, light exercise, I’m sure you’ll be fine in a day or two."

Though they make to leave, they stop at the doorway of the room. Their eyes dim and their hand lingers on the doorframe. They turn around. "Babette. You are a... vampire. Tainted by a Daedric Prince?"

"Rude." The undeath huffs.

"But you know about the Daedric Princes. You know what they can do." Sahkriimir frowns.

The vampire sits up. She pats down her skirt. "Perhaps. Who do you want to know about? Are you worried about being read as one of their practitioners? I assure you, no one here cares who you believe in as long as you kill, and kill often. Don't attack your fellow Brotherhood, obey Astrid, it is a simple life... Easily carried out by those of any religion."

"Prince Sheogorath," they breathe their Lord's name in a whisper. Their eyes fall to the ground, and they examine their feet. "Do I... Do I look like someone under the effects of Prince Sheogorath's power, Babette?"

The vampire shrugs. "Perhaps you do, perhaps you don't. You need to be more specific."

"Am I real?" Sahkriimir looks back up. Babette watches them curiously. They grit their teeth and repeat themself, "Babette, I am not making this all up, right? I am... Sahkriimir. Listener. I'm not lying about myself?"

They flinch when Babette stands. The vampire crosses her arms. "You certainly... have _tendencies _I'm not a fan of. But if you ask if you are a... _Champion_... of that Daedra you spoke of before... No. You don't read as a Champion of Sheogorath to me, Sahkriimir, even if you reek of his madness."

Their eyes widen. "That... What?"

"I don't like repeating myself!" Babette snaps. "You... You smell _complicated,_ Listener. I don't understand it myself. It's irrelevant what you do with yourself after you die. Well, it is to _me, _perhaps the Night Mother and Sithis won't be so happy. But it's all quite confusing. You smell like something of a Daedra, and it should be Sheogorath, really, perhaps it should be only him, but something's deeper. It's in your soul, tucked away under a mess of madness. I really don't care for the aroma, so I must ask you return to your duties as Listener now. _Before_ my nostrils shrivel up into prunes." She huffs sharply and nods toward the door.

"...Thank you, Babette." The Listener frowns. They shut the door to the chamber quietly behind them.

They have a lot of think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as an aside, the beginning of ch 25 was edited to be a bit more concise with what's going on plot-wise :0


	38. you are fascinating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara, vex, brynjolf, barbas, and maven prepare for the first dragonborn's attack on riften. what unfolds is not what kara asked for, but it may be exactly what she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this may in fact be my favorite chapter yet  
thank u for reading ^________^  
hope u like it !!!!

She expects the First Dragonborn to lay siege to Riften in a wave of shouts, of dragons, and of blood. Kara doesn’t enjoy the anticipation. It haunts her sleep; at night she sees sanguine-red pools of threshed dead. In each dream, she finds Riften a wasteland at the hands of _Miraak, _and every single time the masked man makes a point of slaughtering her last. In those nightmares, she wakes up stark terrified, ranting and raving, pleading and begging for him to spare them, at least _one, _to take her thu’um and depart for where Sahkriimir is. She knows the dragon priest does not want her, but she knows it is likely the two will clash regardless; Miraak is the Champion of Hermaeus Mora and what Mora wants he will get.

Kara intends to delay the man as long she can. She doesn’t know if it means death, because death as she knows it is a tricky thing wrapped in cycling universes and resets that force her into new bodies. She has died, was dead, and now breathes. She hopes, should Miraak be ordered or simply choose of his own volition to kill her, that she can come back as something else in the expanse of Skyrim. She doesn’t want to admit how the fear brews and simmers the weeks leading up to his arrival; though it is noticeable, Vex does not comment on it and for that she is grateful.

“Can we beat him?” The white-haired Imperial woman asks one night, when the two stand at a balcony of Mistveil Keep and look across the faint lights of Riften at dusk. Hold Guards patrol the routes firmly; a curfew is enforced and no citizens are out after sunset.

The Dragonborn’s lips part. Her brown eyes dim. “He’s the First of _dovahkiin, _Vex.”

“He’s an old fart?” The light-hearted comment briefly makes her smile. Vex grins at the success.

Kara lets her hand find one of Vex’s free ones. Her fingers curl around Vex’s hand gently, seeking the warmth and comfort the woman provides. “He’s been in Apocrypha for thousands of years—”

“I don’t know what Apocrypha is,” the thief comments and shrugs. “Explain?”

“Hermaeus Mora’s plane of Oblivion… Apocrypha. A foul place full of ancient, hidden information. Forbidden knowledge, if you will. He is truly a Gardener of Men; he has cultivated Miraak over thousands of years. A terrible Daedric Prince and terrible Champion.” Kara shuts her eyes and sighs. “No, Vex, I don’t think we can beat him. I don’t think any of us can. I don’t… I don’t think the Greybeards can, ether. Ulfric Stormcloak? No. Thalmor, even? Backed by the Third Aldmeri Dominion?... _Maybe, _if they progressed to the invention and application of magical brands in this universe’s cycle.” She grimaces at the thought.

“Is it true, what Maven said?” The Imperial squeezes Kara’s hand. “This old fart—He has dragons?”

“Yes. Three at minimum. I can’t remember the exact number.” The Dragonborn grits her teeth. “It’s going to be a massacre.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t stay.” Vex points out abruptly. The thief pulls Kara to her; Vex lets go of her hand to put both of her hands on Kara’s shoulders. She runs hands up and down the Dragonborn’s arms soothingly. “Our enemy is Mercer. Do we have to be here to watch Riften fall?”

“Maven will have us shot down if we try and run. I considered it. _Laas yah nir.” _Kara whispers the shout to confirm the approximation of three different archers in nearby buildings. Two have clear shots at the duo, and a third shifts watch from the skies to the keep. She relays the information to Vex quietly and stares at the buildings in question for a time.

“Voyeurs, all of them. Disgusting guards.” Vex grits her teeth. “If we were just trying to have a nice moment outside together—What would they do? Watch clothes come off and bodies go at it?”

“Don’t get any ideas or you’ll start reminding me of Sanguine.” The Dragonborn smiles faintly at the thought. When she sees Vex hesitate, she frowns “What is it?”

“I don’t know… how to feel about that still,” the woman draws back and tucks a strand of her platinum-blond hair behind one ear. She shrugs and utters quietly. “You… and a Daedric Prince. You don’t hear of something like that often. It’s… a little overwhelming to think about. You truly believe you’re involved with him? Or—You were?”

“Yes.” Kara nods stiffly. “I’ve been remembering more, Vex. Things I didn’t think of before—Things I overlooked, or… Ignored. I…” She flushes faintly and looks to the side. “I think—In the past—I loved him.”

Vex’s eyes soften. “Do you still love him, Kara?”

“I love a lot of people.” The Dragonborn admits quietly. “Not always in those terms, but—Sometimes platonically, I do. But do I love the Daedra? Sanguine? Yeah. Yeah, I think I do. I really think I do, and I know that must sound ludicrous—”

“No, we’re not doing that anymore. I—I can’t say I share your perspective, ‘cause we’re two different people! But,” the other woman’s eyes soften. “I’ll try to understand. This and other things. I think you have a lot of love to give, Kara.”

“Does it bother you?” Kara looks back at the Imperial. “I can’t have only one, Vex. That’s not the kind of person I am.”

“No. No, it doesn’t. Sometimes I think about what it might be like, though. And it’s… It seems disappointing. Because it’s not you. You want to share, you know?” Vex pauses at her smile, eyes lost on Kara’s lips. “Hey, since there’s the possibility we might be murdered by Maven Black-Briar _or _the old fart on flying winged reptiles, do you—Uh.” Whatever the question is, it embarrasses and flusters the thief enough for her to sputter and look away.

Kara raises a brow. “Now you get overwhelmed talking to a crush? After all of this?”

“It’s not—Well—Maybe a little one! A _little _one, Kara.” Vex’s eyes narrow. She meets Kara’s gaze slowly. “I wanted to know where we stand. How do you see me?”

“Can’t say I dislike the sight,” the Dragonborn snorts. She hesitantly reaches for the woman’s waist and wraps arms around her. Vex’ visible blush is heartwarming to see; it makes Kara smile brightly. “I like spending time with you, Vex. Even if we haven’t always gotten along. I like you. I do, a lot. I…” Kara pauses. “—I never got to tell Gabriella how I felt. In the past cycle. I don’t think I ever will. I don’t want to repeat that with you. I do like you. I care about you. And—”

“—You sound like a sappy mess,” Vex’s grin is as sharp as her eyes are warm, deep, and open.

“Maybe you should shut me up.” Kara states calmly.

When the thief leans over and kisses her, the first one is brief and soft and everything that makes Kara’s heart sing. The second is deeper, and longer, and Vex’s hands wind in her hair and caress her while she hums in delight. The third has the Imperial woman pressing her against the doors of the balcony’s entrance, the two’s bodies slowly wrapping in each other while snow drifts gently from above. Kara laughs when Vex knocks her forehead against the Dragonborn’s; the woman curses while Kara holds a hand to her mouth and looks on in amusement.

“I’m okay—” Vex huffs. The thief quiets when Kara places a tender kiss on the spot, before slowly beginning a trail of kisses down her jawline and to her chin. Kara draws back and watches the thief’s red face. Vex exhales sharply and leans in to steal a kiss from her lips, uttering, “This is a good view.”

“Very.” The Dragonborn agrees wholeheartedly. When Kara’s hands move to Vex’s hood, the thief lets her wrestle with the strings and unclasp the hood from the rest of the uniform. It’s dropped haphazardly on the floor. Kara’s hands follow to Vex’s shirt and she doesn’t miss how the woman sighs in need when Kara’s hands lower to her chest. The Dragonborn takes her time feeling out the curve of Vex’s torso before she finally dips her hands underneath and feels for her skin. She’s wonderfully warm and addicting to feel. Vex groans at the Dragonborn’s fingers tracing circles on her stomach and slowly trailing up.

The roar that radiates in the distance makes both ladies freeze. Kara snaps her hands back and the two lurch to the balcony railing.

_“Laas yah nir!”_ Kara whispers the shout. Her eyes widen in awe-inspired horror at the red aura in her vision, soaring at Riften from a distance. The tiny speck of red on its back makes her eyes water and fear jump into her throat. “Gods, no, he’s here—No!”

But Miraak is not the rider of the dragon, she finds out. From the central plaza comes a moment of silence, of peace, before Kara grabs Vex and throws the two to the floor of the balcony just before a monstrous thu’um shouts, _“Yol toor shul!” _

_Fire-Inferno-Sun. _Kara’s heart thuds in her chest at the wall of flames that crashes off the stone exterior of the keep. Embers fall to the ground and she hisses at Vex. “Get inside! Go!”

“And let you fight old fartbag by yourself?” Vex snaps back, already grabbing two daggers from concealed pockets along her uniform. “Are you kidding me?”

“He’ll kill you!” Kara hisses. She scrambles to her feet, climbs on top of the balcony, and sees it: the golden gleam of the First Dragonborn’s mask, the grand robes of a trained mage and warrior, and the intent and resolve in both posture and stance even when guards flank the man from three sides. She knows then that Maven Black-Briar made a terrible mistake; the Jarl did not consider Miraak would come on _foot. _

Miraak’s focus is on her even as guards raise bows and lift swords. Conjuration magic crackles around the man and not one but _two _great storm atronachs appear from nothing: terrifying, swirling, animate storms that set off firing bolts of lightning at archers first. Miraak ducks and weaves out of the way of multiple guards and their lunges; he’s nimble for his age and he effortlessly cuts one down, then another, and another. The guards are futile efforts; Kara doesn’t know how Maven ever thought numbers of men alone could take down a _zoor kaal. _The legendary champion of Hermaeus Mora is too much for a _thousand_ men, much less a few hundred.

No, the First Dragonborn needs an equal to stop him. Kara isn’t equal, not like _this, _but she doubts anyone in Skyrim is so she will have to do. She gives Vex a parting glance before shouting, _“Mul qah diiv!” _

It’s good to feel the ethereal white scales over her form, to see the power they bring and the confident they radiate. It’s better to see Miraak’s pause and his glance up, thirteen Hold Guards dead at his feet and storm atronachs furiously flinging more thunderbolts in the meantime.

_“Sahrotaar!” _The man shouts the name. Kara’s body shivers but she leaps off the balcony, already at a lower height. She hears Vex call her name behind her but the Dragonborn ignores the thief and hits the ground running. She needs to engage Miraak before he finishes calling his dragons, because she knows the man’s intentions and four dragons on top of a legendary Dragonborn will end extra poorly than what is already predestined to happen.

She draws two shortswords as she runs, bow and daggers shoved out of her mind in favor of easier parrying and less reliance on ammunition. The woman jumps past the first storm atronach and weaves around the second’s lightning bolt. She grits her teeth and slams the first strike against Miraak’s sword, throwing him back from the force of impact and growling her challenge. She follows up with a swing of blades against the man’s arms, each blocked or narrowly avoided in experienced steps of a man who has lived too long to fall easily. She sees his free hand glow with the crackle of fire magic and Kara makes a dive behind a stall left out in Riften’s sunset. If she had time to think, she might consider how ironic it is that Brynjolf’s stall is the one to shield her, but the roar of flames comes and heat bathes her figure.

She breathes, _“Laas yah nir!” _And stares in horror at the dragon that circles overhead. She sees one, but knows there are two. That’s all she can do before a fireball explodes Brynjolf’s cart and she throws herself to the right and runs a semicircle.

Miraak is deliberate in his actions, forcing her out and making her take action than risk approaching her one-on-one. When he inhales, she barrels for him but one of the man’s atronachs throws itself in the way and takes the cut meant for his torso. The storm atronach cries out in crackles of electricity before it dissipates into nothing. Miraak shouts in her face, _“Kruziikrel!” _

_Three. _Kara grits her teeth and tries to stumble back. It’s clumsy; she knows she should have kept to her bow, because the man spots the opening and lurches forward. The strike of his blade barely bounces off her left shortsword, but the sparks spell he charges and shoved into her gut lands its mark. Through her Dragon Aspect armor, the Dragonborn screams in agony at the volts arcing across her body. Her muscles involuntarily spasm and she flinches and drops one shortsword; Miraak kicks it away and slams the flat of his sword into her wrist. Kara’s agonized cries accompany the crack of bones in her hand breaking. Her other shortsword drops and clangs to the ground. The remaining lightning atronach shoots a bolt of electricity at her and she watches it envelop her figure; the magic punctures her body and makes her feel like she is being wrung alive, twisted and warped, and the Dragonborn cannot find air to supply the wails of pain.

“_Krusolhah!” _Miraak shouts at the sky.

“Kara!” Vex’s scream is audible.

Kara’s body remains locked in place, too badly damaged by electricity to move on its own. She can’t shout the warning at Vex to _run, _only stare at the white-haired lady as she sprints forward and screeches at Miraak. The words are inaudible; Miraak spins on his heels and side-steps the thief. “_Joor golt ni vii lok.” _

Vex sputters and curses when the man’s sword goes through her chest. She drops and goes limp in a pool of blood.

Three dragons circle overhead.

Kara hears a bark. Barbas stops at the edge of the plaza, where two-dozen men trail Maven Black-Briar as three individual champions of Daedra look at one another.

“The Champion of Hermaeus Mora makes himself known. Bet he’s got an ugly face,” Barbas barks, tail wagging.

Kara spies Brynjolf down a side-street. The ginger-haired Nord holds a finger to his lips. When he uncaps a potion and downs it, the Dragonborn understands the group’s plan. Brynjolf vanishes from sight under the effects of the invisibility potion. Kara’s body gives out and her knees buckle beneath her. She manages to stay upright, eyes glossy but watchful as the scene plays out before her.

“Champion of Clavicus Vile. Champion of Mephala.” Miraak remarks calmly. “Where is the _zaam mey tiid?_”

“We don’t have them, sorry pal,” Barbas snaps jaws at the masked man. “Came all this way for nothing! Now get lost!”

“You know where they are.” Miraak’s free hand crackles with magic. Dragons roar overhead. The serpentine one swoops down and _crashes _into the middle of the plaza, just a few feet from where Kara and Vex lay immobilized.

“Do I?” Maven is a bold woman, even if she is a woman Kara despises. She cocks her head to one side. “Are you going to shout me into submission?”

“What a loser.” Barbas huffs.

_“Laas yah nir,_” Miraak breathes and spins on his feet while the serpentine dragon crawls forward. The First Dragonborn draws his sword up and it clangs off the ebony shortswords of Kara’s favorite ginger-haired Nord. Miraak says nothing as he steps back and away from the Thieves Guild’s second head; the serpentine dragon bellows a challenge and Brynjolf curses profusely as the dragon’s jaw snaps forward.

The man weaves around the dragon’s first lunge, but the strike of its tail and its claws are too much for a mere landwalker. Kara’s eyes widen in horror at the _smack _his body makes when it hits the ground.

“I am no fool. Tell me where you sent them, and your deaths will be painless.” Miraak barks coldly.

Screams come from the buildings across the town. Two dragons crash unto the rooftops of nearby buildings, one on the roof of Helga’s Bunkhouse and the other on the top of the Temple of Mara. The citizens who poke heads out of windows or try to exit are screamed back into shelter by Hold Guards and their companions. Kara’s Dragon Aspect armor fades from sight, the shout dispersing. _Three on the ground, one in the… _

“Like we’d help out the Champion of Mora! You think you’re _so _nice with your ugly little mask an’ face and ugly—” Barbas shuts up at Maven’s stare.

The Black-Briar matriarch hums thoughtfully. “I am sure we can negotiate something, Miraak—”

“Krusolhah, Kruziikel, kill the mortals, save the Champions for me.” Miraak waves a hand and turns away. The dragons bellow loudly in the air. The largest of the two, a massive dragon with dark scales and golden-brown wings, furiously crawls and leaps off the Temple of Mara. It’s body crushes several screaming guards on landing; Barbas howls and runs to the side while Maven Black-Briar curses and takes off running. The second dragon to land, the one is inexplicably small compared to the other three, cries out in delight and leaps into the air.

The tiny dragon shrieks, “_Fo!” _

A wall of ice springs up where the shout lands, impaling and decimating a line of guards while others take aim and begin to launch a volley of arrows.

“Relonikiv!” Miraak shouts the fourth dragon’s name.

Something is wrong, because he is fazed by the fourth dragon’s sudden entrance. Even as Maven Black-Briar is cornered by the smaller of the dragons, and as the larger, dark-scaled beast finishes picking apart her soldiers, Kara sees the man stiffen. Her eyes widen at the fourth dragging swooping from above and landing neatly on the ground. Then she sees why: the fourth dragon, the one with a speck of red accompanying its aura when she used her Aura Whisper shout before, still holds a rider.

“_Miraak!” _It’s not a shout but a yell, a call that makes Miraak’s body tense.

Miraak doesn’t cut down the woman that climbs off Relonikiv’s back. She’s familiar to Kara, in a way the Dremora can’t quite recall. It isn’t until the woman stops in place, gaze locked on Brynjolf’s fallen form, that things click in Kara’s head.

“What did you do to my brother?” The woman breathes, eyes wide. “_What did you do to my brother, Miraak?_”

“He was in the way.” The man retorts sharply.

“Fix—Fix him!” Kara recalls her name as _Cadha_. The ginger-haired Nord is at Brynjolf’s side in seconds, gaze morose. “Talos, no, I did not deal with all of that just to—Just to come here and watch _you _die! No, no, no—Miraak!” Cadha snaps her head back and glares at the First Dragonborn. She’s not afraid of him, Kara realizes. She doesn’t know how or why, and it bewilders her almost as much as Miraak’s compliance when he strides over to the lady’s side and kneels next to her and Brynjolf’s bloody, bruised form.

“I am not letting them all live.” The man states sharply. “Only your brother.”

“I don’t _care _about the others! Please—Just—Do something,” the woman pleads. She sighs in relief and her eyes water when the First Dragonborn’s free hand glows a tainted yellow light. The restoration magic pours into the wound. Kara hears Brynjolf’s groan of pain. Miraak cuts off the magic before the Nord is fully healed, much to Cadha’s chagrin. Her brows furrow and she stares at the First Dragonborn.

“He will attack if healed more,” Miraak stands, sword clasped tightly in one hand. “Go back to camp, _dii kiim. _Relonikiv will take you.”

“I told you my name is _Cadha. _And I did not,” Cadha stands and growls lowly. She shoves a finger into the man’s chest and snaps. “—Ride on—Dominate-Enlightenment—For thirty minutes—So you could tell me to _go!” _

“I am going to execute many of these people. You should not see it.” The man grunts.

_“Rek los golaah, Miraak. Aan golaah kiim. Hin ronit.”_ Relonikiv snarls.

_She is… stubborn. Miraak. A stubborn wife. Your… equal? _Kara stares. She feels renewed energy come back, regenerating through time and patience. The Dragonborn feels her muscles twitch. She stares at the four dragons, at Miraak, at his _wife, _and eyes the distance between the latter duo and herself. Her eyes go to Vex’s still body next to her, the woman breathing but unconscious. Near her foot is one of the lady’s daggers.

“I’m not leaving you here.” Cadha says. Her eyes narrow. “I am _golaah kiim. _I do not remember what _golaah _means, but Relonikiv doesn’t lie.”

Miraak exhales sharply. “_Gol hah, _Cadha. Go back to camp on Relonikiv. This is dangerous; I am not exposing you to… this.”

The woman’s form stiffens and becomes docile, compliant under the effects of the shout. Cadha’s arms drop to her sides and she walks slowly back to the green-scaled dragon. Kara waits until Miraak turns his back and addresses an injured Maven Black-Briar before she slowly reaches for the dagger. She leaps unto Cadha with a hiss and pulls the docile Nord to the side. Cadha doesn’t fight it; she’s lost in the throes of the shout. Miraak spins on his heels and freezes when Kara forces Cadha’s head up and shoves Vex’s dagger against her neck, drawing a ring of blood.

“Call off your dragons.” Kara spits at the ground, forcing the dagger in a sliver deeper to let blood run.

Miraak’s grip on his sword tightens.

Kara growls. “_Now!” _

_“Sahrotaar, Relonikiv, Krusolhah, Kruziikrel—bo ahrk saraan fah dii uth.”_ Miraak snaps at the dragons. _Go and wait for my order. _One of them cackles, and two audibly laugh but the four leap into the air and soar higher and higher. When the four fly into the distance, becoming but tiny specks out of sight, Kara breathes. Miraak’s hiss is low and threatening; he steps toward her but she hefts Cadha up.

“Not one step,” Kara snaps. “Not another step. I will decapitate her. Try restoring that to life, _dovahkiin._”

“Very well.” Miraak barks.

“Barbas!” Kara shouts at the side, but her grip on the dagger never wanes and her eyes never leave Miraak’s body.

The dog whines and limps to Maven Black-Briar. “You got words for me? A potion, please?”

“Tell Clavicus Vile to make Hermaeus Mora come to Riften.” Kara barks the command.

“…Are you out of your mind?” The Daedra would scowl, probably, if he had such a face.

Kara’s eyes darken. She continues to stare at Miraak. “Drop your weapons. Your mask. Potions. I know you have them.”

“No.” The man’s refusal comes as a surprise, but only in part.

Kara tenses. “I know what _dii kiim_ means, Miraak.”

He snorts. “You really think I care if that woman lives? Our _arrangement _is a joke. A ruse. Unconventional circumstances, matters of… formality.”

“I don’t believe that,” the Last Dragonborn tells the First. “You healed Brynjolf.”

“A small price to pay to make her shut up.”

“Then why did you call her _your_ wife?” Kara snaps. “And not _a _wife? _A _woman? _A _mortal?”

Miraak lowers his sword to the ground.

“And your mask, _dovahkiin._” The Dragonborn breathes. “Or I send her to Oblivion.”

His face is not familiar, thank the Divines. He has sharp features and looks far closer to a man in his forties than one that is thousands of years old. Apocrypha has not done Miraak well; he has disastrously pale skin and his dark veins are visible beneath in places. His eyes are sullen and a storming, furious dark green, every bit as telling as Kara’s suspicions on the man’s feelings. Part of Miraak has terrible, inky scar tissue melding with human flesh across his face. His eyes appear bloodshot, but with snaking, tentacle-like black markings rather than red.

Miraak’s growl bares stained teeth and contains infinite rage. “Happy, _dovahkiin?_”

“I’m no fool.” Kara snaps. “Gloves, boots, outer robes. Throw them into the waters. _Now!”_

To emphasize the urgency, Kara cuts deeper into the woman’s neck. Cadha’s form groans in pain. Miraak's eyes widen at the trail of red spewing down the half-Nord’s robes, rich and deep and staining.

“Miraak!” Kara howls. “If I must repeat myself—I _will_ behead her!”

The man slowly peels off one glove, then two. The enchanted garments hold a faint shimmer. He holds the gloves up. “You want me to throw them in the water?”

She says nothing in reply.

She can hear the inhale of his lungs, and the impeding shout, and she slams the knife into Cadha’s neck and braces herself. Miraak’s shout is a thunderous, _“Gol hah dov!” _

The knife is lodged in and Miraak curses even as he runs across the plaza to the two’s frozen forms. The man wrenches the knife from Kara’s docile figure and throws it to the side. His hands glow and gleam a murky yellow as he presses magicka into the wound on Cadha’s neck. Kara breathes silently. She can only wait, watch, and hope she’s lucky enough for something to happen.

“I will flay you alive, _dovahkiin,_” the man is enraged and only centuries of time spent training composure and restraint keep him from hacking her to bits on the spot. Miraak pulls Cadha from her and snaps the words. _“Zu’u fen drun hi dinaak! Faz! Aus!”_

_I will bring you death. Pain. Suffering. _Kara breathes silently, locked into compliance until the man orders otherwise.

A flash of red and black catches her attention. Light gleams off a single dart as it flies across the plaza and embeds in Miraak’s neck. The man stiffens and reaches to pull it out. A sole, singular blowgun dart is tossed aside before the poison goes into effect and his body freezes, still holding unto Cadha’s now-unconscious form. Kara stares in shock as a tall, muscular Saxhleel steps out from the shadows of a building; he wears the Dark Brotherhood’s fetching shrouded armor, and his eyes hold a sharp gaze to them as he approaches.

“I would appreciate if you refrain from flaying her alive, Dragonborn,” Veezara states sharply; he opens a pocket attached to his chestpiece and pulls out a set of enchanted manacles. The Shadowscale wretches Miraak’s hands behind his back. Cadha slumps to the ground but Veezara doesn’t heed her any attention; he locks the manacles unto Miraak’s wrists. The man’s eyes blaze with anger behind his paralyzed gaze.

After a pause—Veezara walks to the side, grabs the man’s gloves, balls them up, and returns to shove them in Miraak’s mouth. He grabs a roll of bandages from a pocket on his chestpiece and gags him.

“No shouts, either.” The Shadowscale states coolly.

By the time Kara can speak, Veezara is consulting Maven Black-Briar on the side. The Shadowscale knows her; it doesn’t surprise the woman, given the matriarch is the Dark Brotherhood’s benefactor. Kara inhales great gulps of air and drops to her knees. She meets Miraak’s furious gaze and grins at him. “—Looks like that flaying won’t happen after all. Lucky me.”

Her mind drifts back to Vex and she snaps up. She can hear Brynjolf’s ragged breathing, and she knows Cadha is stable—Kara bolts to the white-haired Imperial’s side. She calls across the plaza. “Veezara! Please—Tell me you have a healing potion—Or _something _like that!”

The Saxhleel pauses. His beady yellow eyes meet her pleading brown ones. Veezara bows his head at Maven Black-Briar and strides to Kara and Vex. He unclasps a pocket, this one attached to his hip, and hands over a tiny red vial. Kara smiles; she recognizes the faint glassy indents on the unlabeled vial. The Dark Brotherhood has an unspoken, unseen way mark their poisons and potions. If it’s marked, it is one of Babette’s, and Kara distinctly remembers Babette as being _the _best alchemist in the lands. She uncaps it, opens Vex’s mouth, and pours it in. After a minute, the liquid works its magic; Vex grunts in pain and twitches. Kara helps her sit up while Veezara watches from the side.

“We get him?” The thief mumbles groggily.

Kara snorts. “No. We’re dead. Welcome to Sovngarde.”

“Mean.” Vex growls. Kara offers a hand and pulls Vex to her feet.

She feels Veezara’s eyes bore holes in her back but the Dragonborn ignores him a little longer. She strides to Brynjolf and rolls the man unto his back. The woman frowns. “Vex! Do you have magicka right now?”

“Maybe? Worth trying?” The white-haired woman pauses and runs to her. The glow of her magic is a beautiful, pure yellow, untouched by the powers of Oblivion. As Brynjolf’s breathing becomes normal, the man begins to stir. His eyes flicker open and he stares up at Kara and Vex.

Kara laughs at the confusion in his face. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“Miraak?” The ginger-haired Nord whispers “Is he—He dead?”

“No.” As Brynjolf slowly sits up in drying pools of his own blood, Veezara answers for the group. The Shadowscale keeps his arms at his side. His gaze returns to Kara after a moment. “—It is a… creation of mine. The poison will linger an hour. But I can re-administer it as necessary; I brought extras—”

“You’re that fucker from—From—The mountain pass!” Vex blurts out suddenly and makes to draw her dagger, but it’s halfway across the plaza on the ground. She balls her fists instead. “We should cut you down too!”

“No,” Brynjolf states. “Vex—_No._ If he wanted us dead, lass, he’d kill us. His uniform—He’s Brotherhood.”

Kara’s eyes soften. “Don’t lay a hand on him. He won’t hurt us. Besides, we owe him.” Her eyes briefly skip to Miraak’s paralyzed form, still kneeling on the ground near Cadha’s idle form. “Without him—Death would suck.”

“Sweet cheeks! Hey! Hey, Dragonborn! And the lizard!” The word ‘lizard’ makes Veezara’s brows furrow, but his composure is legendary and he doesn’t so much twitch. Barbas limps to the group and looks around. “Which of you fucks knows restoration magic? The yellow stuff?”

“Vex, can you…?” Kara looks apologetically at the woman.

“…What? He’s a _Daedra, _Kara!” Vex balks.

The Dragonborn sighs. “I know. We might _need_ him if Miraak gets free.”

It doesn’t make the thief happy, but Vex does it nonetheless. Barbas wags his tail gratefully in return. When Maven Black-Briar shoots Vex a scathing glare, the white-haired thief groans and heals her, too. Behind, back at Miraak’s side, all of the group but Maven and Barbas pause at the sound of a half-Nord’s faint gasp. The sound is pained, but not from physical injury. Kara’s gaze darkens and she strides partially across the plaza before Cadha snaps awake and staggers to her feet. The ginger-haired Nord stands between Miraak and the others.

Maven calls over what few Hold Guards have lived through the ordeal. She waves the others off while she begins snapping orders at them one-by-one, an unusual urgency and concern present in her voice.

“What did you do to him?” Cadha’s voice is full of disbelief.

“Well,” Kara paused. “Technically—_I _didn’t do it.”

“Undo it! Now!” It’s almost pleading, and for a second the heartfelt desperation makes Kara reconsider, but she refuses to budge. Her eyes narrow on Cadha while the other woman stares at her. “Please.”

“No.” The Dragonborn snaps. “He will kill us all.”

“It shouldn’t be like this—Please!” The ginger begs. “Please—You’re Dragonborn, aren’t you? You know what it’s like—To have others demand to use you like a _tool!_ To have others wrap hands around your neck! To have others—”

“Shut up,” the Dremora spits, now irritated. “I am not sympathizing with Miraak. Even if… I understand his circumstances. He’s killed dozens of citizens, and for what? To try and find Sahkriimir? They aren’t here. This death and destruction is unnecessary. He’ll pay for it.”

“—I won’t let you hurt him,” Cadha’s hands crackle with conjuration magic.

“Cadha.” It is not Kara, or Vex, or Veezara, or even Maven that speaks. Brynjolf steps forward and pulls Kara aside, taking her place while the latter watches carefully. “—You know who I am?”

The woman’s eyes are pained. “…Yes.”

“She begged Miraak to heal you,” Kara calls from the side. “His dragons would have killed you, Brynjolf.”

“Kara—Don’t.” The thief calls back. Brynjolf takes a step forward. “I know you’re a conjuration user, lass. _Sister. _I remember what you did at the inn. Brought a lot of questions, but—”

Cadha’s blue eyes narrow “—But what? I haven’t forgotten what you did to the people in Winterhold! You are all _merciless_ thieves!”

“It was a misunderstanding your _people _started. We acted in self-defense.” Brynjolf’s words become colder than winter.

“You didn’t have to kill them all like that,” she whispers. Her eyes begin to water. “I cared about them! They were unnamed corpses to you—But I _cared! _They were my friends! My companions! And you butchered them all!”

“I’m sorry.” Brynjolf offers sincerely.

“Sorry doesn’t bring back the dead.”

“It doesn’t, no. But it can prevent more from dying, sometimes,” the thief retorts. “You don’t want Miraak to die.”

“I know you intend to kill him. _She _intends to kill him.” Cadha snaps.

“Perhaps, but knowin’ Kara, lass tends to negotiate when asked.” Brynjolf raises a brow and looks over his shoulder at her. He crosses his arms. “Kara?”

Her eyes widen. The Dremora grits her teeth. “Brynjolf, you can’t _seriously _be thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

“Can it be done?” The man asks.

“…That’s not up to me,” Kara grimaces. “I mean… Are you sure? It’d be easier to kill him! I could use the souls!” At the man’s solemn gaze, she sighs. “Fine, fine. I can try. I can’t… guarantee anything. Hermaeus Mora isn’t easy to negotiate with.” At Cadha’s stare, she growls at the Nord and snaps. “Not one word from you! Not one! I do all the talking; you stay the _fuck _away from Miraak throughout this and make yourself scarce. The slightest hint of trying to free him and I’ll cut your throat myself.”

Cadha doesn’t seem pleased with her tone, but Kara doesn’t care. She turns to Veezara and pauses. The Shadowscale raises a brow at her.

“Keep those darts on hand. Just in case. Worse comes to worse—Killing Miraak is better than letting Hermaeus Mora have him.” Kara says softly. She pauses, and a thought crosses her mind. She looks at the Shadowscale and adds, “And… thank you. Veezara.”

As it turns out, Barbas did in fact speak to Clavicus when asked earlier. The dog informs Kara of this an entire minute before the atmosphere violently changes. Kara keeps Miraak’s paralyzed, shackled, gagged form at her side when the wretched abyss first appears. Maven Black-Briar and Barbas look on from the steps of the Mistveil Keep. Brynjolf sticks to Cadha’s side; though the latter has her hands bound, she is not subject to any of Veezara’s poisons. Veezara keeps to the shadows of a nearby building; Vex stands at the ready on a building opposite the plaza. As the horrifying, foul abyss that is the aspect of Hermaeus Mora manifests, Kara swallows her nerves and wretches Miraak’s head back. She fingers Vex’s dagger and holds it to his neck.

A terrible laughter oozes out. It is worse than anything Kara remembers the video games being like. Her eyes narrow as Hermaeus Mora greets her with a simple, “…Kara. A pleasure meeting the bitch of Sanguine… You have made ripples across the… _planes_… of Oblivion…”

“I want to negotiate. A transaction.” Kara breathes the words. “I will kill him if you say no.”

“Oh? A waste it would be…” Dark tendrils flicker in and out of the pulsating, grotesque abyss. The smell of acid seeps through the aspect into the air of the plaza.

“You ask me to, normally,” Kara reminds the Prince with a small, faint smile. “Is this any different?”

_“Normally, _Dragonborn, you offer yourself up as my… Champion.”

“I have a different offer. I think it appeals to you more, far more than _Miraak _ever will.” She lies through her teeth. She keeps her smile present and attempts to imitate one of the many times Brynjolf’s conned a traveler.

The wretched abyss pauses. “…An offer? What is worth a _Dragonborn_ in value…? Besides… _another_ Dragonborn?”

“Knowledge.” Kara says the word before she can stop herself. She bites her lip, confidence momentarily lost.

“My attention is… yours.” The voice gurgles and slithers in her ears.

For a moment, her mind blanks. She rakes her head of anything that would be of use, of value, that the Daedric Prince could not _possibly _have. Knowledge of Sanguine and Nocturnal and Clavicus Vile is all useless; she imagines he has other ways to keep tabs on the Daedra. Knowledge on herself? What about herself is _valuable? _She won’t give up her soul; she refuses to entrust it to any Daedra, not even Sanguine. She only has the memories of how _Skyrim_ the video game works, unless he wants to sit through the boring smattering of memories that was her Earth life.

Kara’s eyes twinkle. She understands the appeal of Nocturnal’s lucky blessing, because the thoughts come to her in droves. She releases Miraak’s head and steps forward. She points a thumb at her chest. “Hermaeus Mora. I was once consumer of this world.”

“…Yes. That is _established,_” the Prince retches back. “_Once._”

“We do not know if any consumer exists in this cycle. Nor if they still live. Sheogorath’s madness chokes this universe in entropy.” Kara sucks in a deep breath. “But—I am still me, Hermaeus Mora. I still possess memories of _Earth. _The world beyond this world. The world that is the core of all that Is, Will Be, and Has Been. Even the Daedric Princes know little of its depths; Sheogorath is, perhaps, the closest of you to have ever uncovered the truth of Earth. The vastness of my home planet.”

If she knows anything about how the Skaal shaman in the Dragonborn expansion fare with Hermaeus Mora, it is that the taking of knowledge is painful, often lethal. But she knows she is Dragonborn. She will rise if she falls. She cannot be slain unless another of her kin strikes her down. Her eyes narrow.

“Hermaeus Mora, these are my terms. You will release Miraak and his four dragons. He will not be bound to serve you. He will not be your Champion. Him and his dragons will regain ownership of their souls and remain in Mundus to live out the rest of their lifespans,” Kara states firmly. “In exchange, I will offer all I know of the planet Earth. Everything within my brain—I offer it to you. But you will not take my soul. You will not have me as Champion.”

The plaza falls quiet. The only sounds are those of Hold Guards tending to injured citizens and each other. Even Barbas stands without so much a bark or whine.

“A… promising offer…” Hermaeus pauses. “You ask not for the souls… Why?”

“I am a Dragonborn,” she states softly. “And so is he.”

“Loyalty to kin… Hmm,” dark tendrils begin to reach out and gesture for Kara to approach. When she does not, the wretched abyss reeks and coughs. “_Come, _Daedraborn… Come offer your _memories._”

“You first—” The Dragonborn snaps. She points back at Miraak. “Him _and _his dragons. All four of them. _Relonikiv. Kruziikrel. Krusolhah. Sahrotaar._”

“It…” And as Hermaeus Mora speaks, he regurgitates five pulsating purple crystals. They fly out in different directions; one shoots to Miraak’s paralyzed body and shatters over him. What sounds like thunder booms in the distance as the soul gem breaks and his soul flows back into his body. Even from a distance, Kara can see the black bloodshot-marks of his eyes return to normal. She sees his gaze clear up from dark green to evergreen. His scar tissue fades in color to a normal, slightly pink hue. Four thunderous cracks follow in the distance, coming from above in the sky. Draconic roars follow. “…Has been _done._ Daedraborn…”

Kara shrieks as thick, inky tendrils wrap around her body and snap her to the wretched abyss’ waiting mouth. She doesn’t struggle, merely cries out in pain when the Daedric Prince manifests dozens of sharpened appendages and plunges them through her body. She doesn’t know if the pain is real or not, all she knows is that an intense probing follows: the Daedric Prince enjoys picking apart and looking through _her _mind. Hermaeus Mora is thorough; he absorbs and eats up copies of every experience, even the forgotten ones, and Kara finds herself reliving the memories over-and-over again until the Prince is satisfied with one and moves to the next.

It is a quick process, but it feels like forever. By the time Hermaeus Mora finishes with her, Kara’s body is a limp mess oozing with black ink from the Prince’s tendrils. She can’t gurgle in pain, only stare through one eye at one of the Prince’s eyes emerging from the abyss and staring at her. The eyeball grows in size, and she emits a low retching noise as it approaches. From deep within the abyss comes faint, heinous laughter.

“…_Fascinating._” Hermaeus Mora oozes the words. “You are… _Fascinating._ Kara. Daedraborn…”

The Daedric Prince doesn’t kill her. Not that he could _truly _kill her, but his tendrils retract before her body succumbs to internal injuries. She is dropped to the ground. The wretched abyss spews a noxious aroma before it dissipates without another word. Kara hears Vex run over and she feels restoration magic pour into her body. It helps, but it _hurts_, and when Veezara strides to her with a potion-in-hand, she gratefully takes it and swallows the foul-tasting liquid. She sits upright and exhales sharply, then looks around. “That went better than I thought.”

“You actually…” It is Cadha who speaks, quiet and trembling. Whether it is awe or fear is irrelevant.

Kara accepts Vex’s outstretched hand and lets the thief pull her to her thief. She sways a moment but the white-haired Imperial snorts and steadies her. Kara stares and wears a tight frown as Brynjolf walks Cadha to Miraak. At Kara’s nod, Brynjolf slowly undoes the knots and the rope falls to the ground. Cadha rubs her wrists and looks around the group tentatively.

“Veezara, do you carry an antidote to your poisons?” Kara asks quietly.

The Shadowscale nods. “It is necessary. I always carry one.”

“…You do, don’t you?” She meets his gaze and offers a faint smile. It’s satisfying to see his eyes soften on her. When he hands it over, she nods in thanks before walking and kneeling next to Miraak. Kara tears off the man’s gag, uncaps the vial, manually opens the man’s jaws, and pours the liquid in. Then she stands back, just as he begins to retch and hiss and snarl. “Hello, Miraak.”

He’s still angry. She doesn’t blame him. Kara holds her breath and eyes him carefully. After a moment, Miraak looks away. He remains quiet.

_Not even a thank you. _Kara grits her teeth. _Why people on the internet are obsessed with you is beyond me. _

“Miraak.” Cadha’s eyes water. She slowly steps forward to her husband. He stills and looks at her. Kara feels out of place, but she doesn’t move; if Miraak expects privacy he will get _none_, not after the shitshow she had to go through to get to this point.

“…Cadha.” The First Dragonborn states faintly.

“You are the most _asinine_ man—I have ever met,” the half-Nord shakes her head. She wipes her eyes. “You’ve shouted me twice now! And I hate it! Every time! I told you that—Before—The way to Riften—I _hate _it! I don’t care what your excuse is! You arrogant, rash man—She would have killed you—And I would have to watch—And then who would order your destructive, obnoxious, _annoying_ dragons around?”

Kara raises a brow. She meets Vex’s gaze, then Brynjolf’s. They look as lost as she is. Veezara doesn’t appear to care throughout the spiel; he keeps a hand near where Kara assumes a concealed blade lingers. What fascinates her is not how many words Cadha can spit out in sixty seconds, but the fact Miraak listens to what the woman says. He does not speak, but he watches Cadha intently.

“…I know you said it is your _duty _to protect me.” Cadha says quietly. “…But I am your equal now. And that means—It is my duty to protect _you_. But if you keep shouting me away—How am I supposed to do that? _How,_ Miraak? Maybe you don’t care about me—But I care about _you_.”

_“Krosis.”_ The man whispers.

Cadha stares. Her eyes narrow. “I don’t know that word.”

“Sorrow.” Miraak closes his eyes. He exhales slowly. “There is not a word in the _dov _tongue for sorry.”

The ginger-haired Nord stands. Her hands ball up into fists. “I don’t forgive you,” at Miraak’s parted lips and wide eyes, Cadha adds. “—Forgiveness is not only _words, _Miraak. Don’t give me more words as an apology.” She looks at the rest of the group, then turns to Brynjolf. Her eyes are dark and her throat raspy when she asks. “Excuse me. Brynjolf. Do you… What is a good place to stay in town?”

“…Bee and the Barb?” Her brother frowns. “Eh—We’ll find you somewhere. Kara, Vex, do you mind?” Brynjolf hesitates. “I don’t want to leave my half-sister out on the streets.”

“I don’t mind.” Kara blinks. Vex agrees with a snort and nod.

As the two leave, Kara exhales loudly. She looks at Veezara, at Vex, even at Barbas and at Maven Black-Briar who now stands listening intently to the conversation. Then she turns her eyes to Miraak, and she kneels next to the man. His gaze darkens at the sight of her; he pauses before asking. “…Why didn’t you ask to own _dii zii?_ You are… _et’Ada,_ _dovahkiin. _It would have made you… powerful."

“It would have bred resentment. Animosity. _Rahgot. _Anger.” The Dremora stares at him. “I may need your help, Miraak. The _et’Ada_ Sheogorath threatens our world. He wants to reset it. To find a… _consumer,_” she is relieved at Miraak’s stiff nod of understanding; Kara has no desire to repeat the information and explanation another thousand times. She inhales a breath. “He wants to… I don’t know. Trade places with this consumer? I don’t care about the details. But he is a threat. He needs to be dealt with. If you value your freedom—You should deal with him, too. Him resetting the world will force you back into Hermaeus Mora’s debt. I despite you, but you do not deserve to be treated like a caged animal.”

_“Hi los ni zu’u mindlok,”_ Miraak says softly.

_You are not what I know. _Kara understands each word perfectly. She huffs. “I’m not here for your soul, Miraak. But we could use your help. We need to get over the mountains, fast. Your _dov_—”

“They are not mine anymore. Their souls belong to them, _dovahkiin. _If I call, they may strike you down.” The man picks up his mask and turns it over. Kara stares as he puts it on. “But… you have done me a great service. I owe you a debt. I will do what I can to help you.”

“Where will you head, Dragonborn?” Veezara speaks softly from the side.

Kara feels bad she can’t pull him aside a moment and talk privately, but too much is going on for her to have the time. She bites her lip and glances around the group. “—Falkreath Hold. We’re going to the Dark Brotherhood's Falkreath Sanctuary. We’re going to find Sahkriimir.”

“The Second Listener?” The Shadowscale’s eyes widen a second. _"You know them?"_

Kara spins on her heels and sputters. “They _really_—For real? _For real?_ They get to be Listener? _Again?"_

“Yes, confirmed by Lucien Lachance and Keeper Cicero.” Veezara nods. “It was not official for long before I… took a leave of absence. Came here.”

“I’m glad you did,” the Dremora nods. “That makes me happy. Mullokah—Is he there as well?”

“Yes, being trained as—” Veezara pauses. A look from Maven Black-Briar shuts him up. He glances at Kara. “—As an initiate.”

“_Brynjolf!” _Vex belts out the name across the plaza, where the ginger-haired man looks up and waves. The white-haired Imperial grins ear-to-ear. “Sahkriimir and Mullokah are at the Sanctuary! We’re going there on _dragons!_”

He’s a panting, breathless mess a second later when he stops sprinting at the group’s side. Brynjolf catches his breath and looks at Kara. “...Is this true, lass?”

The Dremora smiles. “Want me to call you a _mey, _Brynjolf? Because I imagine Sahkriimir will use that word many times when they see you.”

It delights her to no end to see the man’s face light up. It’s a welcome change from the tragedy of the Thieves Guild, the fate of its many murdered members. Though the smell of fish hangs in the air, the atmosphere shifts to one Kara finds infinitely more hopeful. The presence of the First Dragonborn gives her a grand confidence, one not even Mercer Frey could destroy. She smiles faintly and looks at the sky while the group talks in the background. _Things are going to be… alright. _


	39. the wrath of sithis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the darkness of falkreath's sanctuary, sahkriimir finds an ethereal comfort after being forced to confront a horrifying face from their past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ten chapters left, with 3 being epilogues  
this is a very dark chapter be warned  
warning for character death  
things are about to ramp up so buckle down and prepare urself

Peace makes them antsy. They are not comfortable when the only thing going amuck in the sanctuary is a rampaging chicken trying to escape Mullokah’s gleeful hugs. The small, black-feathered chicken is a tiny terror. The unstoppable force of chicken can only be matched by her owner’s plucky quick feet and feeble maneuvers. It is in the sanctity of the sanctuary’s waterfall chamber, watching the youth chase the chicken in circles, that the antsy, nagging thought in the back of their head returns. It lingers even after Mullokah grabs the squawking bird and hefts her over his head in triumph.

The sight admittedly works to distract Sahkriimir a moment. They pause mid-sentence in conversation with Rune and look over. A feeble smile sits on their lips. “You are a nimble initiative, Mullokah.”

“I am! I am nimble _and _an initiate!” The boy declares happily. He lowers Clucky into a hug and strides to them and the other Listener. “And you two are Listeners! _The _Listeners of the Dark Brotherhood!”

“It sounds a little weird when you say it like that.” Rune snorts.

“Do not be rude to him,” Sahkriimir interjects. Their eyes narrow. “He is doing his best.”

“I am doing my best. My _very _best! I can’t wait to use top-secret Dark Brotherhood code words with my contracts! When—When do I get a contract?” The Nordic youth peers up at the two, looking from one to the other.

“When the Night Mother deems it appropriate.” Sahkriimir answers for the duo. “You must be patient, little assassin.”

“I am… Wait, really? I _have_ to be patient? Aww,” Mullokah strokes Clucky’s head. Within seconds, the chicken goes from stressed to content and dozing like it is a warm summer day.

“Mullokah!” The voice comes from the entrance hall, where all three know Astrid waits. “It’s time to sharpen your daggers!”

“Coming!” The boy calls. He stops to give Sahkriimir a quick hug before the boy and his chicken bound away.

The silence that follows is awkward and uncomfortable. The second Listener grimaces visibly at the tension between the two. It no doubt comes from the incident several days prior, where a bloody _plant _caused freakish hallucinations to spawn. That was, of course, after Sahkriimir fucked up in the most spectacular way possible. They have many regrets, and going into the Night Mother’s sanctuary _that _day is at the top of the list. Their eyes dim at the thought. They do not know what they will say to Brynjolf when they see him again, nor have they even considered how to address Cicero.

The Keeper’s avoided them since they first shoved him away mid-kiss and bolted from the room. Understandably so; Sahkriimir wants to curl up into a ball at the slightest thought of the reel of emotions that comes from the memory. They can still remember the feel of his lips against theirs, the euphoric bliss they found in at his touches, and how utterly adored and desired the jester made them feel in such short time. It is now a cruel, callous memory, along with every other thought they had of the jester, because it reflects the mess they are inside: an arrogant, unfaithful creature who fell from the sky.

_But to hold myself accountable… I need to address this. I can’t keep running away. _It’s surprising how easy mortal thoughts come to them now. They are the epitome of a human, only lacking in ownership of a human soul. Considerations they would have never dared touch upon as a dragon now come naturally.

“Rune?” Sahkriimir speaks softly, to keep the words from reaching Astrid’s ears even a stairwell away. “—Where is everyone today?”

“Well… Uh. Give me a second.” The Imperial rubs his chin and frowns. “I think—I believe Nazir and Niruin got their own individual contracts, lucky bastards. Then… Arnbjorn and Gabriella have that one contract with… Maybe… Uh. Was it framing some poor bastard’s son? Maybe? I think Veezara and I were supposed to go on that together. But, y’know,” he clears his throat. “Veezara ditched us.”

“He what?” Sahkriimir stares.

“…Yeah. Astrid’s pissed about it. Hopes it’s a one-off thing. I’m sure it is; it isn’t like the Shadowscale to run around causing chaos outside contracts.” Rune shrugs.

“What about Babette? Festus? …Cicero?” Sahkriimir presses.

“Oh, that’s why you’re asking? Right. _Right,_” the other Listener snorts. “Okay, Babette’s out hunting. She needs more… thralls? Divines help me, I do _not _want to think about that. Then—Festus is around, somewhere. I think he might be doing enchanting today. I heard him blab about making an explosive shoe that goes off when you step in it. No idea how it would work, but I want to see.”

“Cicero. Is he here?” They already feel like they know the answer. They can see it, too, in the man’s stern face when he gazes at them. “Rune.”

“Yeah. Night Mother’s sanctuary. But you knew that, Sahkriimir.” The other Listener speaks quietly. “I’m not… going with you to talk to him. If you want to talk, you got to be an adult and do it alone.”

“I know.” Sahkriimir inhales deeply. “I know.”

“I don’t know if you really do. Sometimes you say one thing, but then go and do the opposite. Makes me wonder what your real motives are.” The other Listener cracks his knuckles and frowns. “I need a nap.”

“Clucky is wearing off on you.” Sahkriimir states.

“Good, good. More naps means happy Listener. Happy Listener means happy Brotherhood. Something like that.” Rune grumbles loudly. He waves them goodbye and scurries off, leaving the other Listener alone with only the waterfall for company. It’s quiet, almost _peaceful _in the sanctuary, and they despise it greatly.

When something is not going on, they feel antsy. The paranoid feeling returns to them, the worries surface, and their mind begins to think in a _what-if _kind of way. Though they could distract themself temporarily with cleaning up the dining hall, fetching Babette new herbs from outside, or even scooping spider dung out of Lis’ pen, they decide to do something that should have been addressed immediately. They look for Cicero, and they find the jester in the exact place they knew he would be, conveniently the last place they look: the Night Mother’s sanctuary.

“Keeper.” Sahkriimir states quietly when they open the door. They see the jester’s form tense. They push the door open and step inside. “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh—Oh—Talk to—Cicero—This—_This_—Cicero?” The jester sputters and stares and looks around as if another jester will step out from behind the Night Mother’s coffin at any given seconds and bow.

“Cicero,” they address him by name and he shuts up. Sahkriimir looks to the side and wrings their wrists. They feel nervous, yet another irritably mortal emotion they have since gotten used to. “I—We need to talk about what happened.”

The poor jester looks mortified when they peek at him. It aches their chest to see him like that. They only want his smiles, his joy, his bliss, but they know that is not possible at the moment. Their eyes dim, but they clear their throat and go on.

“…I’m sorry,” they slowly put words out there, all a vain attempt to convey the confusing feelings in their head. “I… feel like I led you on. I shouldn’t have danced.”

Though the jester begins to speak, Sahkriimir waves at him to shut up. They sigh and shake their head.

“No, no. Not yet. Cicero. It is true we had something in… another life. World. Setting. But,” they frown. “In this world… I care about a man named Brynjolf. He is very important to me. When… When I was mourning you, and what I lost, he was… there. A constant. I have come to care about him very much. I even… I like to think of him as ‘mate.’ Perhaps it is silly to hold unto the thought, after I have already gone and messed up what I have with him, but… But I cannot dance with you. Both dancing, and… _dancing_.” Their shoulders slump and they exhale.

The jester is quiet. It’s very _not _Cicero, and they detest every second of the lack of noise.

“…Cicero does not agree with everything Listener Too says. Listener speaks like they are the only adult in this room,” the jester muses with a sigh. He wrenches his jester cap off and strangles it in one handle. “—Cicero is also here! Cicero also _danced! _Cicero… perhaps… wanted to kiss Listener Too… Mmm, yes, kiss indeed… a _kiss, _a _kiss, _a _kiss… _Cicero is pleased by the thought, _mmm…_” For a moment, the jester is oblivious to everything, or is aware and simply doesn’t care Sahkriimir is present. Cicero spins and twirls and sways in glee at thought only Cicero could think of. “Cicero wanted to kiss Listener Too! Ho, ho, _oh ho, _Cicero would kiss Listener Too all day long if possible! But… But…”

Sahkriimir stares.

“…Cicero does not want to make Listener Too sad. If kissing Listener Too makes Listener Too _sad, _it is a terrible, nasty, ugly thing.” The Keeper huffs and stomps one foot. “Cicero accepts a no. Cicero will not kiss Listener Too again unless _Brynjolf _says its okay.”

“That—Um.” Sahkriimir rubs the back of their head. _Is that a good sign? A bad sign? What does that mean? I… I’m lost? _

“Listener Too, the lovely, sweet, wonderful Keeper has a question!” The jester screeches loudly. They snap their head up and stare at him, grateful he doesn’t just bounce to their side. Cicero smiles wickedly. “When does the strange, illustrious, mystical _Brynjolf_ arrive?”

“I don’t know if he ever will,” the Listener confesses softly. Their eyes dim. “He is in Riften now, probably. Cicero. He is… He is the second head of the Thieves Guild. He is a busy man, and… He has a lot of work to do.” But they know that, spite of their morose mood and anxious thought processes, they _know _the Nord will look for them and Mullokah. He is too kind and reliable for his own good; part of them worries about him running into trouble along the way, especially when it comes to things related to the _Brotherhood. _

“Cicero will be extra nice when he visits.” The Keeper jabs his chest with one thumb and stands up tall. “_Brynjolf _will be so impressed even _he _will want sweet, lovely Keeper to kiss him.”

The thought brings a faint smile to their face. They huff and shake their head. “I do not remember if he cares for other men, Keeper—”

“Cicero is not _simply _other man. I am far more spectacular than that, Listener Too. Far more! More, more, more,” the man trails off and begins to hum a merry tune. He walks to a shelf of preservatives, picks up a chunk of mudcrab chitin, and looks over his shoulder. “Does Listener Too need to pray? Cicero has many duties to take care of. Rubbing mudcrab chitin on sweet Mother is one of them.”

“I can wait until you’re done. Thank you.” Sahkriimir feels a little better when they leave.

Though they don’t know what the outside looks like, they take Festus Krex’s word for it that the outside is _night_ when they pass him in the halls and he bids them a groggy good night. They stop by Mullokah’s room and find the boy asleep in his bed, Clucky curled up on the blanket next to him. Chicken and child alike snore softly in the safety of sleep. They briefly consider waking him up, but opt against it and leave the child in his room. He’s a lucky initiate; being a Dragonborn and the only recruit for the Dark Brotherhood lends to certain perks like ones own room. Sahkriimir only has the bunk hall to look forward to, and they don’t look forward to it.

They decide to take care of dishes in the dining hall. It’s easier to do them at night than to wait until they pile up come morning. A full bin of crusty dishes is discouraging compared to one or two on a table. Sahkriimir finishes with time to spare; they feel sleep call to them but they hold off on the urge. They sweep the dining hall and waterfall chamber before calling it a night. As they stash the broom near training mannequins to move later, Astrid’s voice seeps out of the entrance hall.

“Sahkriimir.” The voice is unusually calm. They can’t help but wonder if they did something wrong, but they swallow their nerves and walk up the stairs. They make it half-way before the blond-haired Nord begins striding down the stairs, watching them with a strange expression on her face. “Sahkriimir.”

“Yes, Astrid?” Their brows furrow. They stare Astrid down as she walks to the step just prior theirs.

_“Sahkriimir.”_ The woman repeats.

Astrid throws her body weight into the former Dragonborn and both go toppling down the stairs head-over-heels. Sahkriimir curses aloud and shoves Astrid away; the leader of the Dark Brotherhood is fast on her feet and in seconds has two daggers pulled and makes to slash and stab Sahkriimir in a heartbeat. They gawk and dance backwards, vying to avoid and dodge rather than lash out.

“Astrid! _Astrid!”_ Sahkriimir shouts in confusion, lost on the matter. The leader of the Brotherhood doesn’t stop; Astrid slams a dagger in their right shoulder when they hesitate too long. Sahkriimir howls in pain and curses loudly before ripping the knife out and throwing it back at the leader. Their will to be compliant and orderly dissipates; they duck another slash and shove their knee into their leader’s gut. The shrouded armor of the Brotherhood is durable and they get nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement they hit Astrid in the first place.

Astrid shoves a knife into their side. They pray it misses internal organs and cuss her out loudly in roars of violence. The waterfall roars back in the background. As two more daggers are drawn and the former Dragonborn is forced to move backward, Astrid’s movements become more erratic and volatile. She surges forward and Sahkriimir growls and sidesteps the woman; they grab the back of the woman’s uniform and throw momentum into a spin that sends Astrid stumbling into a nearby wall. But it’s a crude technique; they know that, and they stare in horror at the realization Astrid is not quite herself. The way the leader of the Dark Brotherhood peels herself up off the ground makes a horrible, retching panic build in the pit of their stomach.

Blood oozes from their cuts and they step backward.

_“Sahkriimir._” Astrid says.

“Astrid?” They whisper in horror. “Astrid—_Astrid!_ Fight it!”

The look in Astrid’s eyes is docile and complacent, a perfect mirror to the times they used the _Bend Will _shout on others.

“Mullokah! Festus! Cicero! Rune!” Sahkriimir begins to scream the names out one-by-one. Astrid lurches forward and they parry her blow and force her to the side. They bolt past the woman and scurry into the depths of the sanctuary, leaving the shouted woman behind in their haste. They head straight to Mullokah, to the young lad’s bedroom, and burst through the door so quickly he snaps up and draws a steel dagger of his own. Sahkriimir’s blood and terrified gaze snaps him awake immediately. “Mullokah—Get—Clucky—Clothes—Weapons—We have to go! We have to go!”

“What’s going on?” Mullokah throws a coat over his night wear and slips into socks and shoes. He takes Clucky in both arms and the chicken continues to snooze while he tails Sahkriimir through the twisting corridors and tunnels of the sanctuary’s depths. “Why are you hurt? Sahkriimir—What’s happening?”

Sahkriimir’s hands shake. They feel the wet fabric of their uniform stick to their skin but there is no time to change nor assess the situation. They make a break for the dining hall and bolt up the stairs, stopping only to ensure Mullokah follows their every move. The confused child and sleeping chicken trace their every step and keep in line with their blood droplet trail. Sahkriimir’s eyes widen at the sight of Festus passed out on a bunk. They run to the elderly mage’s side and shake him roughly. He feels stiff; he is not cold like a corpse but his body is not _normal. _Sahkriimir’s face drains of color when they feel his faint pulse.

_He’s… He’s been poisoned. He’s been poisoned. Ingested? Was that why—Earlier? _The sound of footsteps nearby makes them spin on their heels and _throw _Mullokah behind them. They stretch out an arm and hiss at the intruder, only to stiffen when Rune walks up the dining hall stairs to the bunk hall and frowns. “Rune. Rune—”

“What in Oblivion’s going on? There’s blood everywhere in the waterfall—” He stops and looks at the stains on their uniform. He hesitates, then a hand goes to his shortsword. “…Sahkriimir, what are you doing?”

“Astrid—She _attacked me_—” The second Listener pleads their case. “She’s under the effect of a shout! There’s an intruder in the Sanctuary!”

“Woah, woah. Calm down. That’s a bit of a large leap—”

“She _stabbed me multiple times,_” Sahkriimir’s eyes well with tears. “Festus _is poisoned!_ How do you explain that?”

_“Tch. _Always too observant for your own good. Shame, really, I wanted to play around.” The voice that emerges is definitely not Rune’s, that of the other Listener. Sahkriimir’s entire body trembles and shakes as the illusion spell fades away in a shimmer of cool red magic. The man that stands is donned in horrifying dark armor, almost akin to something heard of a _Nightingale _yet warped and twisted beyond measure. When he lifts his mask, Sahkriimir’s entire body freezes in terror at the sight of the disgusting, wicked grin.

“Mercer Frey.” They whisper.

He’s hideous, covered in keyhole-like scars that occasionally twitch or pulsate on their own. His eyes are as greedy as the horizon is long. He seems pleased by their reaction, which absolutely _nauseates _them to no end.

“Who is Mercer Frey?” Mullokah frowns at them.

“Mullokah—Tenet Three,” tears spill out of their eyes. They can’t win; they can’t win. They know they can’t win, not against the man that tore their voice out and threw them from the sky. _“Run.”_

Sahkriimir calls on their tiny pools of magicka and lets flames spells rip out. They see the former Nightingale throw up a ward far too complicated for a non-mage to conjure, and it dawns how grossly outmatched they are. They shout at him to get his attention and push forward with the flames, up to the point the heat makes sweat roll down their brows and smoke fills the room. Mullokah knows better than to argue; the boy zips down the stairs leading back to the adjacent dining hall. They cut the spell off and pant heavily while the former Nightingale snorts. “Look at you… all soft, no bite. Ugly, too. Here I was, hoping I’d get to fuck you a few more times before I got another voice. Only thing you were ever good for was a lay.”

They grit their teeth. “Never.”

“There’s the bite. Tell me, does it hurt knowing you’re a worthless shell of yourself?” Mercer Frey drops the ward. A powerful flames spell zips around his fingers, glowing faintly and readying an inferno at a moment’s notice. He calmly strides forward to them; their body locks in fear and panic. “My only regret is… not getting to toy more with you. I think it would have been fun. Hearing you scream from pain… It will have to do.”

He leans to them, grabs their head by the chin, and growls.

“Scream for me, Zaammeytiid.”

Fire burns across their body and they howl in pain. Adrenaline kicks in and they thrash and kick and force the man away, the flames whipping their sides and their enchanted leather armor even as they throw themself over the railing of the bunk hall unto the dining hall table below. They hear a terrible crack and ignore it; the pain can come later. They stagger to their feet and out the doorway of the dining hall, down one corridor and through Babette’s room. The vampire is absent that evening, but Lis scurries across the floor of its pen. They drag their body beyond it and emerge into the common area of the waterfall chamber. The water roars in the distance and they stare in horror at Astrid’s form, cut down and limp in a pool of blood.

A boot slams into their back and sends them sprawling and rolling on the ground. They begin to sob in pain. Tears cloud their vision but they hear laughter when the man strides forward. “You can’t run, Zaammeytiid.”

Sithis, they will try, they will _try. _They made a promise to Mullokah! To go visit Riften again, _alive! _They have to beg forgiveness from Brynjolf! They have to prove their worth to Astrid! See Kara! Stop their Lord! They have to _try, _but they struggle with the thoughts when the man responsible for endless nightmares walks to their side and lifts them up. They weakly struggle and gasp for air when his hands close around their throat. Their vision blurs and they weakly pound one fist against his arm. They hear his laughter, and it is cruel and uncaring.

_“Listener!” _Rune shouts behind. They are dropped to the ground in time to witness the other Listener bring a blade down on Mercer Frey. The beautiful enchanted short sword, no doubt one of Arnbjorn’s custom ebony creations, hits home, but it doesn’t penetrate the armor. Rune’s eyes widen and he rips his sword backward.

Mercer Frey turns around. “You think you can beat _me?_”

“Run, Rune—Run! Run!” Sahkriimir screams.

_“Fus ro dah!_” The man inhales a breath and Sahkriimir coughs and hacks in fear at the sight of a mortal, a landwalker, an individual who has done _nothing _to deserve the voice, shout using _their _voice. Rune’s body snaps as it hits a far back wall. He drops like a rock and Sahkriimir’s eyes widen. They try to call out, to lure Mercer back to them, but their voice is too hoarse for more than raspy pleads for mercy. Mercer Frey strides to Rune, pulls his shortsword from his hand, and brings it down on the Listener’s head.

Sahkriimir can’t stand to look the moment of impact. They begin to cry again. They hear the man hit Rune’s corpse again, again, again, taking all the time in the world to ensure the Listener is _dead. _Bile rises in their throat and they begin to retch and cough.

“Weak.” Mercer snorts. “Might keep _this_, though. Nice blade. Zaammeytiid, why don’t you help me test it?”

_“Fuck you.”_ They seethe through their tears, desperate and strained. They choke on their own spit as Mercer begins to walk to them.

“Honestly, Karliah hitting you with that arrow? Best thing that could’ve ever happened to me. Look where we are now.” The former guild master huffs and kneels near their broken form. He runs a hand through their dirty-blond hair and they hiss at him. “…Not a bad color… But I prefer the gold.” He stands, lifts the sword, and drops it. They throw their head to one side and hear the blade hit the ground they were just at. Mercer Frey pauses. “Going to be like that, Zaammeytiid? I can do this all night. No ones coming to save you.”

“Sahkriimir!” The shout comes from the entrance hall stairs. They know who it belongs to, and it kills them to hear Mullokah so fearful and confused. “What are you doing to Sahkriimir?!”

“There you are.” The man steps away from them and turns to face the stairs. “_Gol hah dov!” _

Their eyes well with tears. They hear Mullokah gasp and go still.

“Funny how easy it is to make all of you drop like rocks. Since I’m _nice, _I’ll let you live, kid. Let’s make this quick and painful.” Mercer begins to walk up the stairs.

Their blood boils. They cannot tolerate the thought of Mullokah getting hurt. To harm them is one thing, to kill them another, even to kill every other single person in Mundus they have grown to care about, but they _will not _let the guild master touch a hair on Mullokah’s head. They will die and be torn apart by Sheogorath’s madness before they willingly let the man hurt the boy. They are not his ‘parent,’ but part of them knows it doesn’t matter what they call it: he is _their _tiny Dragonborn and they will do everything to keep him safe and out of harms way. He is the closest thing to a child or little sibling they will ever have.

They scream out their rage, their fear, and their worries. They feel adrenaline resume and they hear Mercer Frey pause as they fight through pain and slowly stagger up. Everything aches and throbs, but they throw pain out the window and stare at the man that took _everything_ from them.

_“Not him_.” They bellow each word. Their sight spins, but they hear the laugh.

“Oh, he yours now? In that case, I’ll make his death nice and long for you. Since he matters _that _much.” Mercer spits. “I’ll let you watch—”

“_Mercer!” _Sahkriimir roars the name. “Not my _child!” _

“Tell me, _Zaammeytiid_, what can you do about it?” Frey snaps. “You have nothing!”

_“_I am the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. Sworn to the unholy matron and father of dread. I don’t need _everything _to have something! _Lucien Lachance,_” the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood whispers the name of the dead Speaker. The spectral form rises from the ground and cracks dead bones.

“I was… wondering. If you would remember…” The dead Speaker’s smirk is cruel and menacing.

“He has taken enough of us. Kill him.” The Listener hisses and holds their side in pain.

_“Gol hah!” _Mercer Frey shouts the two-word command instead of the full-fledged three-word shout. Lucien Lachance’s translucent, ghostly figure stiffens in place. Sahkriimir’s confidence wanes and they stare in horror at the ghost becoming docile and complacent. They back away from ghost, stumbling and staggering all the while. Their former guild master snorts and calmly strides down the stairs. He passes Lucien and walks directly to Sahkriimir; he lifts them up by the scruff of their chest piece and remarks calmly. “You don’t think ahead, do you? He was once a—"

“_You don’t think ahead… do you? _A child of darkness... drawn from the _Void_ itself... Cannot bend to your will," the dead Speaker’s voice wafts like a disembodied echo across a cavern, fading in and out. Lucien’s smirk slowly devolves into a wide-eye grin as he pulls the dagger from the slit between Mercer Frey’s chestpiece and mask. Another blow follows. And another. Another. Another. A shower of mortal blood, of rich red _laas_, flows from the man’s stunned body. Lucien has no hesitation; he is the crown jewel of the Night Mother and Sahkriimir’s saving grace as he pulls Mercer Frey’s head back and coolly finds a niche to slip his knife into along the man’s neck. Blood sputters and Frey’s body spasms before an ethereal, divine sense of magic _gushes _out of his injuries.

The ghost drops him and steps back; both Sahkriimir and Lucien Lachance watch Mercer Frey’s form suddenly melt and shed in crude layers. Blood and gore go everywhere, Sahkriimir begins to cough and fight back the urge to vomit, and Lucien Lachance shuts his eyes and inhales deeply. When the sudden decomposition stops, Sahkriimir looks back and finds a beautiful, ornate key in the middle of the remains. No sign of the distorted armor lingers. They begin to reach for the key, only to freeze at Lucien drawing his knife and pointing it to them.

“Lucien… Why…?” They mumble weakly, lightheaded and full of shakes from blood loss.

Lucien’s dead eyes stare at their injured form. Nearby, they hear Mullokah snap out of Frey’s shout. He screams and bolts down the stairs and across the chamber to their side.

“You have broken a Blood Vow… _Voldusos,”_ The ghost states firmly. “You have lied of your name, your past, and your master to this Dragonborn. You… understood the severity of this oath when you took it. To break it is… To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis.”

“Sahkriimir! Sahkriimir! Please—Please don’t—Please don’t go to sleep—Please don’t leave me.” The child at their side begs them. He applies meager pressure to several deep stab wounds but all it does is make Sahkriimir curse in pain. Mullokah’s eyes well up with tears and he begins to shake them. “Please don’t leave me alone! Please, Sahkriimir!”

“…wrath… Sithis… Come for…” Sahkriimir mumbles softly. A bloody hand reaches up and runs down Mullokah’s cheek. “Sorry… Mull.”

“No. No, no. Tell Sithis not to—Tell him no! Tell him it’s okay! I said it’s okay!” Mullokah looks at the ghostly assassin nearby. “Please! _Please!” _

“No.” Lucien Lachance’s word is final and it prompts the boy to begin sobbing. The specter stares at Sahkriimir. “The Keeper was drugged... But he lives. Festus Krex… This boy… They live. You will not. What do you say before your judgement?”

"...keep him... safe." They whisper.

A comforting ethereal feeling blossoms in their chest. It overshadows the pain, the haze of Mullokah’s grief, and the horrifying realization they are going to die. Sahkriimir shuts their eyes. They begin to hum a faint tune, one that they were once taught by a jester. Mullokah sobs louder and clings to them, pleading in his tears for them not to go, to get up, to run, to leave, _something, anything_. They sing the melody softly, each note clear as the first time they heard the jester sing it. Something about dying in the sanctuary they love, knowing they protected their progeny, it is all… okay. They are okay with leaving the world like that, knowing they have done all they can.

The sharp sting of metal cuts through their neck. Blood spills, but the ethereal comfort spreads as a cool presence from their forehead to the tips of their toes. Their breathing halts and Sahkriimir, Phantom-Kill-Allegiance, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood and parent to Mullokah, dies.


	40. a well-seasoned quail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cadha catches up with her brother and elaborates on the arrangement between herself and miraak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...TECHNICALLY THIS IS AN EXTRA CHAPTER THAT WASNT GONNA BE INCLUDED  
but i feel bad for writing sads so here is some happy before we return to the sads
> 
> warning for a mention of child trafficking when brynjolf and cadha are talking

The Bee and the Barb is a quaint little inn in Riften. Granted, the entirety of its civilian populace gives her sharp looks for daring associate with _Miraak, _much less _Brynjolf, _but Cadha secures a room nonetheless, one adjacent to two others on the second floor. She doesn’t enjoy how thin the walls are, but the bed is comfortable and a large candle on the side table provides light to read. She still has a restoration tome on her, though Cadha is no closer to figuring out how the school of magic work than before. It is interesting to look through and poke at given the exhausting, cumulative events of the day.

She doesn’t want to think about what will happen in the next few days. As far as she is concerned: she wants to stay back in Riften and try to learn more about the town. It is no home, but perhaps she can make it one, or at least a temporary one until she moves on. The woman frowns and peeks out the window; she sees a clear night sky, a rare sight during the winter months. The half-Nord smiles faintly. A knock on the door kills the happy mood; her heart hangs in her chest and she exhales softly at the possibility of it being Miraak. She doesn’t want to think about him, not right then.

To her surprise, it’s her brother.

“Brynjolf.” The conjurer parts her lips and frowns. She squints at the Nord. “Can I help you...?”

“I just thought you might want some dinner,” the man shrugs and smiles. He holds out a small parcel in both hands. It smells delicious, even if she can’t see what it is. “Jarl Black-Briar had a grand feast tonight. Not my type of thing. Never was, events with lots of people like that.”

“…You always were a quiet one.” Cadha remarks softly. She takes the parcel; it feels warm to the touch and the spices remind her of seasoned duck. Her eyes brighten. “I get to eat with my hands, eh? Just like old times.”

“Oh. _Oh! _Yeah, sorry ‘bout that, lass,” Brynjolf shakes his head and huffs. “Forgot to pick up cutlery on the way. I’m not a personal chef.”

“It would be more of a… butler thing to do, I think.” The woman pauses.

The silence that follows is uncomfortable. Not even the warmth of _hopefully duck _can distract her from the tension that slowly crawls from the ground up. Cadha frowns and peers at the Nord; she finds his gaze is sullen and downcast.

“I looked for you.” He whispers quietly. “When I got out of Honorhall—I looked. I _looked, _Cadha. Everywhere my feet could take me, everywhere the Thieves Guild sent me.”

The conjurer’s eyes dim. “You wouldn’t have found me. I was—I was sold to a couple in Summerset. The man liked my eyes.”

“Do they live?” The thief’s intentions are clear. When she shakes her head, Brynjolf growls. “Good. I’d have their heads on a pike.”

“My fire atronach made a display of him and his wife.” The conjurer states blankly. “That’s past now. I don’t want to think about it."

Brynjolf clears his throat. He crosses his arms and glances up and down the halls of the inn. “Are you—Are you coming with us? To Falkreath? Kara said to be ready by dawn. She and Miraak will call the dragons and shout them into submission. I’m not a fan of heights, but I intend to follow through with it.”

“Oh, right. I almost forgot you’re part of a band of marauding thrill-seekers who want to accomplish something or other with Daedra.” It’s spoken too dryly; Cadha sees the wince. She frowns. “—Sorry. I… I’m not used to you being you, Brynjolf. I didn’t think I would see you alive after all these years.”

“No harm done, lass.” The thief nods. “I thought you were at the bottom of Lake Honrich. Spent too many summer days diving and looking for remains. Never found yours.” The way he speaks the last sentence makes Cadha’s heart ache. “But… I’m glad you are alive. I mean that. Better late than never, even if we met again on bad terms.”

“I hope to continue being alive for quite a time.” The woman huffs. The humor in her voice fades and she sucks in a breath. “Which is why I am not going with you to Falkreath.”

“Ah.” Brynjolf nods. He’s an understanding man, far more tolerable than his vicious, hotheaded behavior as a child at the orphanage. He’s grown more than Cadha could have imagined.

“I hope it goes well. I don’t really… I don’t follow these things front-to-back. It hurts my head.” The conjurer runs a hand through her hair and frowns. “I don’t think I’d contribute much.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I say you contribute to what your _husband _does,” Brynjolf tosses the elephant in the room front and center. He pauses. “Are you two really married?”

“I unintentionally made him agree to be my _mate. _It was not worded that way, I promise. The man doesn’t… He and I don’t get along. He’s incredibly arrogant and full of himself. The first few days I was stuck with him, he only called me _woman._” The ginger-haired Nord grumbles and sighs. “I only asked him to treat me like an equal. That counts as marriage proposals in Dragonborn society?”

Brynjolf bursts out in soft laughter. It’s a welcome sound, even if Cadha’s response is to scowl at her brother. The man takes a minute to calm down. He wipes his eyes and grins ear-to-ear. “Yeah, yeah, that would do it.”

“You aren’t surprised? Did you already know this?” The woman sputters.

“Hey, I’ve known a number of Dragonborn in my time. Three, to be exact. Considering asking one to marry me in the future," his cheeky grin betrays all the joy and warmth the thought brings him. Brynjolf’s eyes gleam. “Miraak’s not on the list, sorry.”

“Feel free to go get him.” Cadha remarks blankly. “He is going to go with you, yes?”

“Aye, lass. Needs to, to help manage the dragons.”

“Good.” She utters softly. “I… think my time with him is over. He can move on with his life and I can move on with mine. That arrangement was unconventional.”

“That’s relieving to hear,” Brynjolf rubs the back of his head. “Because…”

Cadha frowns. “What?”

The smell of _please be duck _is so inviting her mouth salivates as her brother considers words, “Well, way I see it, he didn’t want to spend the evening the same inn as you—So he… Isn’t. He’s staying at Helga’s Bunkhouse.”

“A… Bunkhouse.” It takes a moment to click in her mind. Her face drains of color. “With someone?”

“Aye. He’s…an attractive man, had at least two lasses and a lad all over him in the bar,” Brynjolf’s eyes dim. “That’s actually why I—Why I came here. The food was an afterthought, sorry. But if you two were seriously entangled—Then—You deserved to know, Cadha.”

“Well,” the woman looks away. Her eye twitches. “Good for him. He needs to lighten up. He can do what he wants, Brynjolf, it doesn’t—It doesn’t matter to me.”

She begins to shut the door, but Brynjolf puts a hand on it and gently peers at her. “—When you were eight—You had a twitch in your right eye. Only showed up when you lied, Cadha.”

“…I don’t know how you remember that.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, Brynjolf. Really. It only solidifies my decision. I’ll be okay. I can finally go back to not worrying about a bunch of dragons snapping me in half in my sleep.”

“Four, huh?” Brynjolf whistles sharply. “Only you could tackle that and come out unscathed.”

“Not entirely unscathed; two kidnapped me the second time we met and a fourth tried to murder me once. Didn’t succeed. We’re on… I like to think we are on better terms now, but dragons are utterly bewildering creatures.” It’s spoken with humor, light and easy-going. Cadha smiles at her brother. “Thank you for coming by. I’ll try to be up in time to see you all off, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Sleep well.” Brynjolf steps back and waves as she shuts the door.

The duck turns out to be quail, but delicious nonetheless. She can't eat the entire thing; Skyrim's quails are too big and juicy for one person alone. The meal makes a mess of her hands and she spends time conjuring a small frost atronach to break off pieces of ice; the woman melts the ice and clean her palms. She falls asleep quickly with a full stomach and comfortable bed. It’s a dreamless night, but come morning she awakens to the sound of roars in the distance. The woman groans and pulls a blanket over her head. As much as she wants to, she can’t bother getting out of bed for something short of life or death. The Dragonborns have it under control.

A sharp knock at the door makes her scowl. She buries herself in blankets and lets her mind drift away when the knocking returns to the same tune. Cadha curses under breath. She throws her covers off, slips into shoes, and lazily drags herself to the door. Her hair is a mess of bedhead and in bad need of brushing. When she opens the door, she looks up and inhales sharply at the evergreen gaze peering back at her.

“Miraak.” Cadha mumbles. She tries to pat her messy hair down, as if it can hide the total disarray of her current state. “You should be with the others.”

“You aren’t coming, _dii kiim_?” The Dragonborn pauses.

“No.” Cadha states. “Our arrangement is over, Miraak. We were never really married to begin with. Not that... it matters if we were.” Her eyes dim.

“…I have upset you.”

“You just realized that?” The Nord huffs. She crosses her arms, bedhead and all. “Well, now that you point it out! Yes. Yes, you upset me. Was it the dozens of times you failed to call me by my name? The time you shouted me into obeying? Oh, wait, that was _twice_. Or maybe it was when you went to a _Bunkhouse _and slept with other people! Maybe _that’s _why I’m upset with you!” The woman growls. “You are full of yourself, _dovahkiin._ I have no desire to be with—Around you.”

Miraak’s expression is forlorn. It lasts only a second before his neutral gaze returns, lips pulled in a tight frown as he stares at her. “I did not sleep with them, _dii kiim._”

“I don’t believe you.” Cadha states.

“I am sorry I shouted you.” His voice in inexplicably soft, “You have my word it will not happen again.”

The way the man talks is surreal in its sincerity. It makes the conjurer stare with wide eyes, unable to voice any of the dozen thoughts that spontaneously spring into her head.

“You are still full of yourself.” She says.

Miraak’s faint smile surprises her. It’s as brief as any of the other emotions he keeps held behind a mask, whether composure or an actual golden mask over his face. The man pauses before he replies. “Arrogance has its place.”

_“Pahlok._ That’s the word for it.” Cadha whispers. “_Rahgot _is anger. _Vahzen _is truth. _Krosis _is sorrow. There—"

“—Is no word for sorry,” Miraak finishes the sentence. “Cadha.”

Her heart aches at the way he breathes her name, slow and carefully pronounced. Every syllable is music to her ears and lights a wave of fire in her soul. But it is Miraak who freezes when she steps forward and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. Her hand lingers there, gently tracing his jawline and marveling in every feature.

“—I don’t think you know what you want, Miraak.” Cadha says softly. “You’ve been in Apocrypha a long time. And now… the first person to not be slaughtered on sight… You think you care about?”

His eyes dim. “I know who I care for. I—"

_“No._ No, you don’t.” Cadha pulls her hand back. “You said it yourself. You are a man of tradition.”

Miraak stares.

“You said it yourself. It would be easier for you if I was dead.”

“Cadha—"

She shakes her head. “Goodbye, Miraak.” The conjurer shuts the door. Her eyes water. She doesn’t hear footsteps to indicate he walks away, and the fact alone kills her inside. She slides to the floor and leans her head against the door. _Go live your life.  
_

He doesn't leave.

“I’m sorry, _dii kiim_.” The voice comes through the door, faint and quiet. “That was how I first thought. _Zu’u lost folaas._ I was wrong. Then… _fin et’Ada wahl grah. _Hermaeus Mora caused conflict. I did not want him to take you away like all the others. He would’ve had your head had he known.”

She holds her head in her hands. She grits her teeth and whispers. “—You should have told me that, foolish man.”

“I should have.” The agreement makes her pause. She didn’t expect her voice to carry through the walls, but they are disgustingly thin. From where Miraak’s voice comes from, she imagines he sits against the door, too.

“I don’t want you to treat me like an equal because of your shitty concept of debt.” The woman states sharply. “I don’t want you around out of _obligation!”_

She can hear his sharp inhale through the door and walls.

“What if I offered it for another reason? _Ronit. _Equality.” The First Dragonborn pauses.

Cadha frowns and looks back at the door. “You do not have an equal, Miraak. You are far too powerful for one.”

_“Hi mindol zu’u lost mulaag?” _He sounds pleased, but she doesn’t understand a word spoken beyond _zu’u, _or _I. _

“Common tongue, _please.”_ The conjurer states curtly.

“You think I have strength?” The man translates his words, same smug tone evident before it drifts away. “Equals do not come solely in magic. Cadha. One must be matched in mind and spirit. _Zii._”

“…I do not match either of those, Miraak.”

“Not from your perspective. Our eyes see the same world two different ways, Cadha. I,” he pauses. “I see resilience. _Gaan._ Strength. _Mulaag. _Loyalty. _Mid. _Compassion. _Ofan pruzah dreh. _I… admire those qualities. _Yah. _Seek them.”

Cadha snorts. “You have a terrible way of showing that.”

“—I was not a free _dovahkiin _before Riften.” The man is solemn. “But—I am a free one now.”

The conjurer stands. She pauses and opens the door. Miraak sits where she thought he did; she meets his gaze and frowns. “What happens if I tell you no? If I tell you to go away and never come back?”

His eyes dim. He looks to the side. “I go to Falkreath. You will not see me again. You will be free to… live your life. I will not be part of it.”

“And if I,” the woman swallows her nerves. “If I... If I fancy a different option?"

Miraak’s eyes widen. The man makes to stand up. He swallows and states softly. “I—I would like to try again.”

The words make her flush bright red. She recalls the two's encounter in the cave, and how nearly she had wound up underneath him that evening. She would have done it, too, and not regretted a thing. Part of her wanted to back then. For him to suggest all this himself, of his own volition, of the two possibly gong down a path that leads to the cave and the duo's brief embrace...

“More specific," she says. "More specific, Miraak."

“…I would like to... _court_ you. Cadha.” The dragon priest struggles to pick the words. “To prove I am worthy to call you... _dii kiim. _My wife._ Ronit. _Equal.”

_Dii kiim. My wife. _She recalls the time in the plaza, docile but aware to the world around her when Kara took her hostage briefly. She thinks of how the man reacted to Kara’s accusations, the emphasis of _dii kiim _over less affectionate terms like ‘a wife,’ ‘a woman,’ and ‘a mortal.’ It makes her stomach flip with butterflies. The conjurer looks up and pauses. “I… do not trust you all the way, Miraak. You have to earn that.”

The Dragonborn nods. “I understand.”

“But,” she pauses, a light dusting of pink on her cheeks. It reflects the warmth in her eyes, the ditzy fire in her soul. “—If you promise—No more bunkhouses—I may be willing to try.”

“You have my word,” Miraak swears on it. His green eyes are enchanting, like the tallest pines or evergreen trees Cadha has ever seen. “Cadha.”

“Good.” The woman nods. She hesitates. “—Won’t the others have left by now?”

“You’re more important,” the Dragonborn replies without pause. He looks to the side. “Kara can’t leave without me. The Dragonborn’s _thu’um_ is a sliver of what it should be. It… does not feel like a dragon’s voice. But it is. A weak one, but one nonetheless. She needs my help.”

All the words might have gone straight over her head because she tunes them out after the first three. Cadha fidgets and wrings her wrists; she stops only to grab her restoration tome from the bedside table before trudging to Miraak. She stops at his side; he moves out of the way for her but Cadha doesn’t pass him. Her brows furrow, thoughts spinning around her head. The longer she looks at him, the more a single thought burns on her lips, “…My brother was right about you.”

Miraak’s stare makes her smile.

“You’re a very attractive man.” Cadha states softly. She leans over and kisses him, if only to soothe the itch that’s grown in her stomach. It’s as dizzying and wonderful as she remembers; the feeling of his shock melting and the man becoming relaxed under her touch brings a ping of delight to the conjurer. She feels him take hold of her hips and leans into her embrace. He's taller, but he fits against her like two wine bottles in a cellar. His hands caress her torso and he hums softly. Cadha's smile comes of its own volition, small and kind and warm. “We should get going before Kara decides to send a mob after us.”

“I don’t fear mobs.” Miraak’s eyes gleam with intensity reserved for her in a cave. When Cadha holds out her hand, he takes it, and Cadha pulls him behind her down the hall, the steps, and out the inn. The light of dawn in the morning is as beautiful as the clear sky.

At Mistveil Keep, Cadha stares in surprise at all four dragons perched and poised. Kara is engaged in a furious debate with the smallest, but when the conjurer approaches all four dismiss the Dragonborn and shift attention to her. She lets go of Miraak’s hand and trots forward. Her eyes shift from one dragon to the next and eventually come to rest on Kruziikrel, the very dragon that tried to throw her into a rocky grave weeks prior. Cadha frowns at Kruziikrel, “I’m surprised to see you there.”

The dragon growls. _“Nust fen kreh dii fen fod zu’u lost ni het.”_

“'They will bend my will if I am not here.'” Kara translates. She grins, “Ah, Cadha. Didn't think you were coming.”

"Where is everyone?" The conjurer asks.

“Inside, eating breakfast since _someone _ran off. I’m trying to coax these assholes into wearing saddles. …Looks like the dog’s gonna need to be carried by someone’s foot. Sucks for him.” The Dragonborn rubs her forehead and grimaces. She looks beyond Cadha and peers at Miraak. “—Speaking of assholes. Where did you go? They don't _like me."_

"Good,” Miraak says. He dons his mask and clasps it in place. It gleams gold in the sunlight, a perfect accent to his reclaimed gloves and outer robes.

_“Miraak.”_ Sahrotaar lowers his great blue neck to the man. The serpentine dragon eyes him carefully. Miraak strides to the dragon’s side and puts a hand on the dragon’s neck. Sahrotaar’s faint hiss falls into a low rumble of approval.

Cadha pauses. She looks across the dragons present, and her eyes land on Kruziikrel. The dragon tried to throw her in a stone grave just past a week ago; but the initial flight to Riften showed a slightly more malleable side to the conjurer. She eyes the dark-scaled dragon, sucks in a breath, and calls, "Kruziikrel!"

Eyes turn to her, both dragon and human.

The Nord swallows but stares adamantly at Kruziikrel. He is a dragon with an ego, and one that requires a bit of coaxing to cooperate. She continues to watch the dragon until he begrudgingly lowers its head to her eye-level. Cadha holds her palms up and breathes, “I would like to ride only the strongest of dragons today. The most fierce and bloodthirsty. I humbly request the privilege and honor of being carried by you, Kruziikrel.”

_“Not Relonikiv?... _Hmm. You assume flattery will work, _joor,_” The dragon snarls. “But what do I get in return?”

"What about," Cadha fishes around a pocket of her robes and procures a package of half-eaten poultry. She turns to the dragon and holds it out, a twinkle in her eyes when the dragon snaps upright, enticed by the aroma. Cadha exhales softly and smiles. “—A well-seasoned quail?”


	41. sahkriimir's friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> falkreath's dark brotherhood is not how kara remembers it; it seeps with loss.

She can’t get the damn dragons to wear saddles in the end. The four are too stubborn and defiant to stoop to _that _level, and it drives Kara up a wall. She goes so far to consider shouting the snarky, cackling lot into submission, but the Dragonborn has no desire to tempt Miraak’s rage. Even if _he _pretends they are _followers, _Kara is observant. She notices how attentive he is to each of the dragon’s quirks.

Where Kruziikrel demands praise and recognition, he complies in grunts of acknowledgement. Where Sahrotaar needs assurance, Miraak keeps a hand on the serpentine dragon’s neck to remind him he is there. When Relonikiv loses her surprisingly abundant patience, Miraak speaks soft words in the _dov _tongue that brings the dragon from a precipice—whether threats or actual comforts remains to be seen. Even the feisty, aggressive Krosulhah, with their tendency to smash the club of their tail into structures, trees, and wildlife, halts when Miraak comments on their aim, their stance, and their force. The First Dragonborn is not merely _dovahkiin_. He is _dov_, wrapped in the flesh of man but every bit in tune with his _dovah _soul.

At times, it is humbling to see. Miraak effortlessly finds ways to curb the four dragon’s destructive tendencies and get each of them a rider. Krosulhah is the only one with one human rider; Miraak passes Maven Black-Briar to the small, vividly-brown-scaled dragon and instructs Krosulhah how to hold Barbas in their sharp talons without squeezing the Daedra to death. Miraak himself rides atop Sahrotaar, with Veezara seated behind him.

“To remind him he is as mortal as the rest of us.” The Saxhleel’s sly comments are spoken with a faint smile. Kara is certain she sees him _wink _at her when he climbs on Sahrotaar’s back and sits behind the First Dragonborn.

Kara has the _honor _of riding the dark-scaled dragon called _Relonikiv. _She recalls the name translating to _dominate-enlightenment. _She decides not to comment on it and instead focuses on getting a comfortable seat atop the dragon’s neck, which is covered in thousands of spiny scales. The occasional fin jutting out along Relonikiv’s back makes Kara want to grovel and beg Miraak to swap seats with her. She knows the answer would be no, but Relonikiv is not an easy dragon to ride in spite what Cadha comments.

“She took me here yesterday fine. I did not have the beautiful armor you wear.” Cadha’s remark is dryer than it needs to be when the dragons initially take off.

At least she gets to have Vex sit behind her. She enjoys the feeling of the woman’s arms wrapped around her waist. Occasionally Vex’s hands _wander_ but Kara’s tendency to start giggling or laughing leads to Relonikiv’s sharp growl, and sharp growls mean no fun regardless of altitude.

Kara finds it incredibly dorky that Brynjolf and Cadha share a dragon. The two siblings are on better terms than before, and she sees it in the two’s tendency to make snarky comments on the other or laugh at irritatingly bad jokes. The two ride on the dragon Kruziikrel, with Cadha front and Brynjolf behind her. The dragon in question is _huge, _easily the biggest of the four. Kara despises how quickly the dragon is to suggest bloodlust as a solution to _every little problem _the group encounters during their flight.

The flight itself takes longer than any of them want it to, giving the dragons _plenty _to grovel over on the way there. Miraak explains the unconventional route after the group initially takes off at dawn that day: due to the presence of Alduin and dragonkind focusing on the Throat of the World, the safest route to Falkreath Hold relies on flying over the southern mountain pass’ lowest edge, closest to the southern border of Skyrim. Any snowstorms requires the group to land _immediately_; Miraak refuses to let “his” dragons fly through the clouds with little visibility, and he possesses a reason when Kara inquires why shouting the clouds away won’t work.

“—Alduin will notice,” the Dragonborn states curtly, when the group is grounded and waiting for one long storm to cease. “He is a _Divine _offspring. The shout of the _lok _will draw attention.”

Kara hates that he has a point. She dislikes him most when he’s right, because the man’s smug aura radiates off him in waves; the only time ‘it’ appears to cease is when he tends to the dragons, negotiates their cooperation, or speaks with Cadha.

When one storm ends, after the group mounts their respective _dov _and the _dov _leap into the sky, the four dragons fly high and soar west. At the western-edge of the mountain pass, where the mountains slope from rocky precipices to forests, the dragons veer to the side and begin to double back around in a circle. Kara’s heart jumps in her throat and she clasps unto _Relonikiv_’s annoying, bumpy back scales.

“What’s happening?” The Dragonborn shouts at Relonikiv, Miraak, and anyone else she thinks can hear her.

_“Koraav amativ!” _Relonikiv hisses back, maintaining altitude and keeping her torso relatively flat as to not throw her riders off.

“See… forward?” Kara sputters and winces. She feels Vex yelp in fear—the Imperial does _not _care for heights—and cling to her back. Kara grits her teeth and squints below, but her eyes are drawn _north _when the Throat of the World begins to rumble.

Wails of ungodly, Daedric voices shoot out in waves from the summit. Kara’s eyes widen and she stares in a mix of horror and awe at the visible ring of red light beginning to spread. The glow of immortal magic, of _Divine _properties, expels in an expanding circle that leads with a sudden shockwave. The dragons roar and snarl sharply; Krosulhah nearly bucks Maven off before they get a hold of themself and steady their body in the air. The flapping of wings is a faint noise against an increasing proximity to the choir of dragon thu’ums and Daedra battle cries.

“Let’s get out of here!” Vex shrieks.

Miraak must agree, because he shouts inaudible commands at the dragons and the four take off in unison. The descent down is harsher and more turbulent than the initial ascent; Kara grits her teeth and clenches her eyes shut. She doesn’t remember dragon riding being so turbulent in the past cycle, but in that universe’s defense it only occurred _once_ and under high-stress circumstances.

The frozen remains of Helgen are a ghoulish sight against Skyrim’s frozen grounds. Kara stares at the ruins speechless; she spies dozens of skeletons, still in armor, embedded in the remains of _Odahviing_’s powerful shouts from months ago. She sees broken wagons and weapons, crushed pieces of chainmail and plate armor, and the ice-strewn, crumbled structures that once made up homes, shops, and a keep. Her gaze narrows.

Behind her, Vex calls forward. “—Are you okay? You seem _really—_Quiet!”

“Just want to be done with this already,” the Dragonborn shouts back.

The flight comes to a sudden stop at the edge of the forest flanking Falkreath. The city’s guard force points and squabbles to each other when four dragons soar overhead, but Kara doesn’t think too much about it. When the dragons dip, she screams and grabs unto Relonikiv again; Vex does the same, but to her. Relonikiv lands with the crash of snow flying around the three; the dragon snorts and sways before lowering her body to the earth and adjusting the angle of her torso and neck so the duo can get off.

Kara flops unto the ground and lays outstretched a moment. _“I missed you!”_

“Kara—Kara!” Vex groans when she finishes climbing off the dragon.

Kara gets to her feet. She sees the rest of the group dismount one-by-one. The four dragons shuffle and look around. For good measure, Kara utters a sharp, _“Laas yah nir!”_

Across the forest, at the brink of where her shout’s power halts, Kara spies faint specks of red below the ground. She grins and looks across the group. Her confidence rises when Brynjolf absentmindedly smooths his hair and gives her a glance. “How I look, lass?”

“Mediocre.” Vex answers for the Dragonborn. Kara bursts out laughing and shakes her head; she walks to the ginger-haired Nord and scans him head-to-toe.

“Truthfully,” Kara smiles. “I think they’ll be too happy to see you to notice anything else at first.”

“Aye, I hope so,” his cheeky grin is brimming with joy. “Mullokah better have kept that chicken of his well-fed. Or I got a stern talkin’ to coming for the little lad.”

“Kara,” Veezara’s footsteps are _way _too silent to be natural. Kara jumps and spins on her heels to look at the Shadowscale. She nods stiffly and the Saxhleel tilts his head to one side. “Given… You are not known by most of these individuals… Perhaps—I should go inside. Speak to Astrid first. Explain… Why you are here.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” she smiles in appreciation. “Thank you, Veezara. I mean that. The rest of us will wait out here. Besides, I doubt Miraak wants to leave the _dov _alone too long.” Kara snorts.

She can feel the First Dragonborn’s steely glare. Kara snickers when she hears a rumble of amusement from Relonikiv and a cackle of humor from Krusolhah. Sahrotaar ignores the lot and keeps to himself on the side, while Kruziikrel is too busy being given an ego’s amount of praise from Cadha to care about what’s going on.

Without further pause, Veezara slips away into the trees and disappears among falling snow. Kara crosses her arms and looks around. “I wonder if Nazir will have some of his stew on again.”

“Nazir?” Vex frowns.

“—He’s a good cook, member of the Brotherhood, a nice fellow if you don’t die in the week after joining.” Kara doubts most of the individuals understand what she means, but she appreciates Miraak’s snort all the same. Her eyes shift to the First Dragonborn and she watches in slight fascination at how the man hesitantly kneels near a snowberry shrub. She can’t resist walking over and peering at him. “Did you not have this in your time? You’re… What, several thousand years old?”

“By Talos, he’s almost as old as lassie—” Brynjolf cracks a grin from the side. He holds his hands up defensively when Miraak snaps his head to look at the thief. “—No offense, lad, but how often you come across old hags?”

“Brynjolf! Don’t taunt him,” Cadha shouts from Kruziikrel’s side. She pats the dragon’s snout and Kruziikrel growls. Cadha leaves the dragon and walks to her brother. “I had to beg him to heal you once. I will not do it again.”

“Noted.” The Nord smiles innocently.

_“Laas yah nir,_” Miraak whispers the shout of Aura Whisper. He straightens upright and stares at the treeline. “Three approach.” A hand goes to his sword, gripping the handle of the blade tightly.

What emerges is not normal for the Dark Brotherhood. Kara stares in confusion at the sight of two small children flanking Veezara’s side. One is a petite and calm pale-skinned Nord girl whose brown hair and dark eyes is delightfully familiar. The other child is a Nord boy with dark, messy hair in need of a trim and watery eyes. The sheer contrast between Babette and the boy is cause for alarm. Only the dragons growl and snarl; the rest of the group is silent as Veezara leads the two.

The moment Brynjolf’s eyes land on the boy, his face drains of color. “Mullokah?”

_“Brynjolf,”_ The young Dragonborn is not right. Something is wrong, and it makes Kara visibly flinch. The boy doesn’t hold his chicken; he runs to Brynjolf’s side and clings to him. Mullokah begins to cry, whether in distress or joy is hard to make out due to the muffled wails. Brynjolf’s arms wrap around the child and he looks down at them in concern.

“Which of you is Kara?” The Nord girl—_vampire_—states the words without any hesitation. Babette’s gaze is forlorn. She wears a frown as small as herself as she walks over to Kara and peers at her. “Ah. You’re the Dragonborn, then.”

“One of them.” Kara glances at Miraak from the side. “Got a handful, as you can tell.”

“Babette.” Maven Black-Briar has been quiet until now, distracted by observing the others and keeping Barbas from running head-first into the wilderness. The Daedric dog trots along after Maven as the Jarl strides to the vampire and stares coldly. “Where is Astrid?”

“Dead,” is the first word to fall, but it’s all that’s needed for Brynjolf to freeze and hold Mullokah tightly. Babette glances at him before she continues. “Let’s go inside. I dislike the cold. No dragons.”

“You go.” Miraak snorts and turns away. He returns to Sahrotaar’s side and sits next to the dragon, back against his neck. The man grows quiet when Cadha joins him and sits in the snow.

Cadha parts her lips. “—Someone has to keep an eye on these five.”

“Mullokah,” Brynjolf utters quietly. “Where is Sahkriimir?”

“Inside,” Babette gives the order. _“Tenet three,_ Mullokah. I don’t like repeating myself.”

It takes ten minutes to trudge back through the snow. Babette opens the Black Door with a whisper; she holds it open for the rest of the group as they follow suit. Mullokah sticks to Brynjolf’s side, holding unto his shirt and refusing to let go. Kara’s eyes take a moment to adjust to the old smell of the sanctuary; she recalls Falkreath never quite being _fully _refurbished, but the odor permeates more than just _age. _It’s noxious in a way that makes her cover her mouth with her hand and causes her eyes to water.

The entrance hall connects to a set of stairs leading down into a great waterfall chamber. The waterfall’s roars feel like a faint, old home to Kara’s ears. As she strides down the steps, she stops and stares at dried blood splotches marring the chamber.

“Alright. We’re _here, _Babette.” Maven is the first to speak, stepping forward and eying the short vampire. The black-haired woman is not one for patience.

“This doesn’t look good.” Barbas sniffs the air.

Babette sighs and looks at Veezara. “Go get the jester.”

The Shadowscale pauses. “Are you sure?”

“_I _am the Speaker now, Veezara, and though I appreciate your input on things—This is not one of them.” The vampire balls tiny fists and eyes him. When Veezara nods and walks to the chamber’s far end, she turns to the others. “—I apologize, but Arnbjorn and Gabriella aren't here to join us for this lovely meeting. Neither them, nor Niruin, nor Nazir. It... also won’t be lovely.”

Kara meets Vex’s glance and the two shift their gazes in unison to Brynjolf. He keeps on hand on Mullokah’s shoulder as reassurance, but Kara can feel the fear coming off him. Any joyful or excited sentiment the man once held is gone.

“Several days ago, an individual broke past the Black Door and infiltrated the sanctuary.” Babette states sharply, reciting the facts as if reading from a book. “He proceeded to drug two members of the Dark Brotherhood using poisoned plants and soul gems. I’m not sure when, but sometime during the evening hours, Astrid was attacked and killed by the assailant. Her body was found in this chamber.”

“Where is Sahkriimir?” Brynjolf repeats the question. His voice cracks and his teeth clench. His free hand balls into a fist and shakes.

“—During the final hours of this assailant’s infiltration, he posed as one of the Dark Brotherhood’s Listeners. Rune.”

“Rune is…” Kara’s mouth hangs open, but no other words come. _He’s alive? Is Niruin…? All this time? Here in Falkreath?_

“—Mullokah, come here.” Babette states sharply. The boy wipes his eyes and draws back from Brynjolf. He stops at the vampire’s side and looks at the ground, eyes bloodshot. Babette glances at the kid and frowns. “Please tell them what happened.”

“Rune was… he… He tried to hit the man,” the boy clenches his eyes shut. He struggles to speak, the emotions indicative how raw and fresh and recent it all is. “I was—Entrance hall. Sahkriimir told me—They told me—To run. But I—I didn’t want them to be left—Behind—With him!”

_“Talos, lassie,”_ Brynjolf curses under his breath. He holds his head in his hands. _"No, no, no."_

“—Rune tried to hit the man. It didn’t work.” Mullokah whispers. His eyes water again and he wipes them. “The man—He—Took Rune’s sword—And then he—” The child pantomimes the action, pretending to lift something up with one hand and stabbing it at the ground. He repeats it several times. “—He tried to do the same to Sahkriimir—And I—I yelled at him. I yelled at him. I…”

Babette gives a nod of encouragement. It takes a minute for the child to calm down enough to wheeze out any more.

“—He said—He said things—It made me stop—I couldn’t _move_—”

“Bend Will. He could shout. He could shout.” Kara breathes the words. None of them need a name to know who the assailant is.

“—He said he was gonna kill me,” Mullokah’s whisper is full of defeat. “—He said—He would—And they—They yelled at him—Said—Not him. Not him,” the boy holds his face in his hands and cries. “Tenet—Three! _Tenet three!” _The boy begins to repeat the words over and over.

“Babette. What is the meaning of this? How did someone get past the door?” Maven begins to drill the vampire on the _technical _questions, drawing her attention away. Barbas trots the crying child and barks in a manner that isn’t very friendly, but it’s enough to get the child’s attention. The Daedra paws at the kid’s foot in a feeble, dog-like attempt to get him to shut up, if Kara had to guess.

Brynjolf’s breathing is shaky. Kara frowns and looks at the man. She sees it in his eyes, his posture, and the streaks of tears that silently fall down his face. He’s trying not to lose composure for the sake of Mullokah, but it’s not working. The man turns from the group and wipes his face with his sleeve.

“…Bryn—” Vex’s eyes dim and she whispers, “—I’m sorry.”

_“Why did I leave them in Riften?” _The man runs hands through his hair and hisses. “Why didn’t I take them with me? Why—Gods, _damnit _Brynjolf! I knew he was out there and I—I left them behind! _I left them!_”

“Oh, are all the strange new people leaving already? But poor Cicero has not even said _hello _yet—Strange new friends! Cicero is _here!” _The jester’s voice is the screech none of the group needs or asks for but still receives. The man in motley, donning red-and-black jester attire, comes dancing from a back entrance and waltzing to the groups side. Vex shudders and inches closer to Kara while she pauses and peers at him. Cicero eyes her up and slips into her personal space, jabbing a finger in her direction and declaring. “Oh, ho, _ho, _Cicero knows _many _things about you! Many things—For one, you are a _dunmer_!”

It’s the pointless erratic babble she expects to him. At any other time, it would be a welcome change to the monotony of life, but this time Kara frowns. “—I am—Sure. Yeah. Let’s go with that. Hello, Cicero.”

“By the Divines, Kara, you can’t seriously be—Trying to befriend this guy?” Vex sputters.

“—_This guy? This guy? _Hmmm? This guy has a name! This guy is sweet Mother’s lovely Keeper, protector and caretaker as long as her unholy will remains in this barren lifespan! Cicero is no _this guy_! Offense, offense, I say,” the jester huffs and waltzes away, dipping and weaving around different individuals until he arrives at Babette’s side. “You called, Speaker?”

Veezara’s apologetic look doesn’t make up for how murderous Brynjolf appears at that second. The latter is a mess of emotions that are beginning to meld and mesh into an ugly, seething display.

“Summon him.” Babette stops mid-conversation to address the jester before she turns back to Maven.

Cicero clears his throat, takes a bow, and breathes, _“Lucien Lachance!” _

Immediately, Mullokah flinches and backs away. The boy takes to Brynjolf’s side. For a moment, the man calms enough to utter a quick, quiet reassurance, but then Brynjolf’s stormy gaze returns and he eyes the spectral form rising from the ground with misplaced hate.

Kara doesn't remember how terrifying a man the assassin is until she comes to the sudden realization she is not in the Brotherhood. She feels chills run down her spine; she gawks and guffaws in horror at the ethereal translucent nature of the specter’s form. Lucien Lachance was surely handsome in life, but in death all his features appear ghoulish and haunting. The dead Speaker holds a very sharp ethereal knife, one Kara remembers cutting as good as any tangible object around.

“…Keeper. Speaker… You _called?_” Lucien utters the word solemnly. His shrouded robes hang on him like the visage of a grim reaper, waiting the command to leech life from the area.

Babette pauses. She brushes Maven’s underhanded comments aside and turns to the group. “Excuse me. If everyone could _please _lend me your ear—Brother Lucien was a Speaker in life. I understand most of you do not know our ways, but he is the witness to the assailant’s downfall and our second Listener’s final moments. I believe you know them as Sahkriimir?”

_Sahkriimir really was… _Kara holds her breath.

Brynjolf does the same.

“Brother Lucien, if you could…” Babette nods at the ghost.

Cicero’s gleeful smile and joyful rocking back-and-forth upon his heels makes Kara want to rip her hair out.

“…Mercer Frey,” Lucien utters the name and Brynjolf _hisses _worse than any dragon. The specter’s smirk is wide and callous as he goes on. “Attempted to _bend _my _will… _It did not work. A child of the Void does not _bend _to the shouts of mere men. The second Listener _ordered _me to… show him the _same _mercy he showed our Dark Sibliings.”

“He’s dead, then?” Kara straightens upright. Someone has to ask the question, and she’s both mortified and relieved to see Lucien’s teetering grin border the line of wickedness.

“He got the point!” Cicero decrees _loudly_. “Many times, oh, many, _many, _many times! So much stabs, Lucien was brimming with joy when the poison wore off sweet Cicero’s system!”

“…Then is…” The Dragonborn can’t bring herself to say the rest of the question. She doesn’t want Brynjolf to snap and try to impale a _ghost_ when bigger problems remain.

“Mercer Frey and… the… _second _Listener… died to injuries afflicted by one another,” the specter tilts his head to one side. His dead eyes fall on Brynjolf, goading a chance to strike more life down. “The Keeper has… _preserved _the Listener’s corpse.”

“The key,” Kara snaps out the words. She takes a step forward and eyes Lucien. “Mercer Frey had a Skeleton Key on him! Where is it?”

“Key…?” Lucien’s smile grows. “There was… _is… _no key.”

“He—He had to! He had to! He used it on—Sahkriimir—To—Ansilvund!” The Dragonborn shouts the words in disbelief. “Does the key just _teleport away _when it’s bearer is killed?”

“Cicero has silly Listener Too’s corpse preserved as sweetly and finely as dear Mother in the sanctuary!” The jester’s declaration makes Kara grit her teeth. He’s pushing her buttons; Cicero’s attitude is the opposite of what is needed at the moment.

Mullokah holds unto Brynjolf’s side. The child has run out of tears. His voice is very soft as he says, “I don’t wanna see them. Not like that again. Not all… messy.”

“You don’t have to,” Brynjolf shuts his eyes and bites his lip. “I promise. Kara, Vex—Go without me. I need a moment. I’ll… I need a moment. Okay?”

Barbas wags his tail near Mullokah’s foot. The kid peers at the Daedric dog with a sad curiousness. “Who are you?”

“Vex, c’mon.” Kara calls the white-haired Imperial woman over as she trudges after Cicero’s nimble form. The Keeper wastes no time in leading Kara through the twists and turns of the Sanctuary. It is far bigger and deeper than she remembers it from the past universe; she nearly gets lost on the wrong corner two different times, but Cicero is full of surprises and his awareness of her and Vex’s locations at all times is a pleasant surprise for once.

The Night Mother’s sanctuary feels oddly empty without a Listener at her coffin. If Babette is to be believed, then Rune was _also _Listener.

_Was, _Kara’s eyes dim. She steps forward when Cicero nudges her onward.

The Night Mother’s coffin is a beautiful work of art in grand, shiny metal and morose obsidian clasps possessing strange and intricate carvings in the stone. A stained-glass piece of a skull looms in one wall overlooking the waterfall chamber. Several pews surround the coffin; there Kara sees a white cloth draped across a body. Her heart jumps in her throat. She walks up, looks back at Cicero and Vex for reassurance, and then peels the material back. Her eyes well with tears. “Oh, Sahkriimir…”

Cicero is a fine Keeper, and his preservatives have stalled most of the decomposition, but it also kept the signs of injury marring the dead Listener’s body. As Kara’s eyes trace the corpse, she finds evidence of deep stab wounds across the corpse’s torso, a lengthy and large burn that has since begun sloughing off, old, dark-pigmented bruises in the shape of _handprints _dot the body’s windpipe, but what concerns Kara the most—and makes her blood boil, simmer, freeze, all simultaneous as she stares at the corpse of her former _dov_—is a horrible wound across the deceased’s neck.

Kara’s eyes widen and she stares at the _clean_, smooth cut curving deep through the body’s neck. Though other injuries hint at the pain of the Listener’s end, this laceration stands out in the Dragonborn’s mind. She knows how Mercer Frey thinks and operates; she remembers his cruel acts from normal Skyrim playthroughs where he attempts to kill the player in Snow Veil Sanctum. She _knows _he slits throats: but the act of cutting a throat is less _personal, _quicker done. Sometimes, in the realm of Skyrim, slitting throats is the first and foremost professional’s preference in disposing of unwanted life.

It is also the Dark Brotherhood’s preferred way of murdering individuals.

“Keeper Cicero,” Kara covers the body up and looks over her shoulder. She swallows and holds her tone steady. “—How—Where are the bodies of Astrid? The… _other _Listener, Rune? Mercer Frey?”

Vex has caught on that something is askew. She doesn’t know what, but Kara’s grateful for Vex’s observation. The Imperial woman huffs and nods. “Yeah, when can we see _those?_”

“Cicero was only told to prepare this one!” The man’s delighted chirp rings loudly in the sanctuary.

“…Right.” Kara swallows. “Thank you for showing us this one. Can you take us back to the others?”

“Eh? Already? Cicero prepared many jokes and stories for—” The man _sighs _and throws his hands into the air. He walks to the door of the sanctuary and pulls it open. “Fine, fine, _fine! _Leave poor, sweet Cicero to his lonesome! But—Cicero must speak to mysterious Brynjolf before new friends depart. Cicero promised!”

“To Brynjolf?” Vex pauses. “Uh… What you want to say to him? We can take a message.”

“No, no, _no, _it is _very _important it goes from sweet Cicero’s lips to his! But not a kiss, oh no, no, no, oh, ho, ho, Cicero is not allowed to kiss just _anyone,” _The jester daydreams a moment, lost on the thought. Kara takes the opportunity to grab Vex’s wrist and pull her out of the sanctuary and beyond Cicero’s reach. She’s relieved the man doesn’t follow immediately. The relief ends when Cicero pops up around a fork’s corner and waves at them. Kara scowls and storms the opposite direction; the ‘game’ of cat-and-Cicero continues for several minutes until Kara and Vex finally return to the waterfall chamber.

When they rejoin Brynjolf, the latter has gotten Mullokah to calm. An elderly mage-assassin by the name of Festus Krex appears to have joined the conversation; Mullokah’s happy to see him but happiest when the older man hands a sleepy chicken to Mullokah’s arms. The child hums and holds _Clucky _the chicken tight to his chest.

“Thank Sithis, you’re safe—You’re…” Mullokah’s eyes dim and he pets the chicken’s head. “I’m so happy you’re okay. You’re my best friend.”

“Brynjolf, the jester wants to see you.” Vex sighs, this time her voice containing an unusual depth of sincere apology.

Cicero waves eagerly at the lot.

“…I’m not in the mood.” Brynjolf’s eyes darken. “Tell him to leave.”

“He said it’s very important.” Kara grunts. She crosses her arms. “I—I don’t remember what I told you of Cicer—”

“Talos, he’s the one that... Mara help me,” Brynjolf cusses loudly and glares at the jester. He reluctantly leaves Mullokah with Clucky and walks to where Cicero waves him over.

The exchange is _very _brief. Cicero gleefully greets the man, looks around the room, leans to his ear, and whispers something Kara can’t quite make out. She ignores the duo and glances at the rest of the room. In her back pocket, something bumps against her hip and she stops to reach and feel it. The stone—Rune’s stone—touches her hand. Kara frowns and pulls it out. Her eyes dim and she turns it over in her hands. _I never got to give this back to you. Sorry about that, Rune. _

“Excuse me. Excuse me, Dragonborn—” Babette’s voice cuts into her thoughts. The small vampire strides to her and looks at the stone in her hands. “May I see that?”

“Eh?” Kara blinks. “No? It’s—It belonged to…” Her brows furrow. She doesn’t know if she trusts this cycle’s Babette. She doesn’t really trust Cicero, and she feels more than skeeved out by Lucien Lachance’s ghost. Kara considers her words carefully before she states, “It was a friend’s. I was holding unto it for him. I’d prefer not to… I don’t want to lose it.”

“Why would I keep it?” Babette laughs lightly, hand over her mouth. She tilts her head to one side. “I don’t intend to hoard it to myself. _Promise. _It’s simply… perplexing. I’ve seen it before.”

“You have?” Kara’s eyes widen. She shoves the rock at the short undeath and stares with wild-eyes while Babette plucks it from her grasp and turns it over.

“…What a turn of events this is. How exciting,” The vampire blinks slowly. She holds it up and frowns. “Where did your friend get a _Sigil Stone?”_

“A what?”

“A Sigil Stone! It’s—” Babette’s eyes flicker to Maven Black-Briar and Barbas. She squints. “—It’s a stone used in gates of Oblivion. Most of you young ones don’t _remember _this, but two-hundred years ago a crisis erupted across Tamriel. Oblivion gates were opened, Daedra spilled forth, all _very _nasty business.”

Kara stares. _I forgot... __Babette is canonically, what? Three-hundred years old, minimum? She lived through the Oblivion Crisis! She could have seen the Gates first-hand. She knows what they look like! That’s… lucky to know. But why did Rune have it?_

“These stones—I think most of them were destroyed by the individuals who shut the Oblivion gates? I mean, it is _mostly _useless now; where would you find an inactive Oblivion gate to use it on in the first place? All the known ones were shut by the Hero of Kvatch two-hundred years back.” Babette huffs and shoves the stone back at Kara. The Dragonborn nods gratefully, but the vampire stops her before she turns away and adds in a whisper. “—If you _were _to find an inactive Oblivion gate—I think it could still work.”

The Dragonborn swallows. “Right, right. Thank you, Babette.”

_“Speaker, _as of this moment _I_ oversee this sanctuary. That can change in the future,” Babette’s eyes flicker to Maven. The latter stares at Babette. “—But right _now_ I hold authority. I humbly ask you use my title.”

“My apologies, Speaker.” Kara nods. She opens her mouth to continue, to dare probe _why _in Oblivion Rune’s beloved rock is a _Sigil Stone_, but a spew of profanity and colorful curses from Brynjolf’s direction alerts Kara to the fact it is time to go. She snaps her head and watches the man reel back in rage, eyes full of a hate that’s as foul as the sun is hot. She panics and sputters a shout—“_Gol hah! _Brynjolf!”

“God damnit, Kara, _really?_ Again?” Vex grimaces.

“Oh, lovely, loud stranger, yes, thank you for sparing poor Cicero’s face from a blow of a strong, mysterious, handsome Nord,” the jester croons and backs away. He sighs and shakes his head. “Poor, _poor _Cicero was only trying to help!”

“Brynjolf, walk back to Miraak and Cadha. Do not lay a hand on anyone.” Kara snaps the command, just in case any loopholes exist where a docile man might react with hostility. She squints at Cicero. “And _you—_I don’t know what you told him—But I don’t fucking appreciate it when I get prompted to shout my _friends _into submission. Whatever you told him—”

“Sweet Cicero was only trying to help! To _help! _To share, to know, to see! Cicero only told what the silly Listener Too would have wanted handsome Brynjolf to know.” The jester huffs.

“Vex, let’s go. Maven, Barbas, I don’t give a rat’s ass if you stay or not.” Kara spits at the latter two. She trudges after Brynjolf as the latter stiffly walks up the stairs to the entrance hall. Brynjolf struggles with the Black Door; Kara opens it and keeps it open long enough for Brynjolf and then Vex to pass through. She shuts it in Maven’s face; her patience for the Black-Briar matriarch has run out in midst of everything else spiraling out of control once again, and for once Maven doesn’t have much to hold over her head.

When the group returns to the dragons, Kara finds Cadha’s collected a series of snow-covered mountain flowers. The ginger-haired woman is diligent in drying each of the flowers before removing the flowers from the stems and tucking them into a satchel hanging at her hip. She looks up and frowns; her eyes lock unto Brynjolf. “Kara. Why is he like that?”

“—_Gol. _Earth _Hah. _Mind.” Miraak answers for the Dragonborn. He stands and brushes snow off his robes and breeches. “He is under the effect of her _thu’um._”

“I panicked,” Kara groans and runs hands through her hair. “I—I was worried he was going to snap and attack one of the Brotherhood—And I do _not _want a fight here!”

“Why? We would win.” Vex stops next to Kara’s side. The thief raises a brow. “We got old fartbag here with us, yeah?”

The First Dragonborn ignores her and turns to Sahrotaar. The serpentine dragon eyes the group.

_“I_ do not want the Dark Brotherhood dead.” The Dremora snaps. _Even if... If they might have... Can that really be the case? Mullokah wouldn't lie about seeing Mercer Frey there, would he? Could he? _

Behind the group, from the direction of the sanctuary, comes the cry of a young child. Mullokah springs into view and climbs through snow to get to the group. Clucky is clutched tightly in his arms; the boy has a traveler’s cloak on. “Brynjolf!! You can’t—You can’t be leaving!! You can’t leave me here!”

The Nord says nothing, locked into compliance by the shout.

“You can’t come with us.” It is Maven who speaks, Barbas’ wagging form at her side. The Jarl’s eyes narrow on Mullokah and Kara finds herself suddenly fixated on keeping the boy _away _from Maven’s wrinkly fingers.

“We don’t know where we’re going, yet.” Kara remarks sharply. She strides to Mullokah’s form and stops between him and Maven, acting as a nonchalant buffer and wall between the two.

Mullokah grabs unto Brynjolf’s shirt. “Please don’t go! I don’t,” his eyes begin to water. “—I don’t want to be alone—I don’t, I don’t! I miss you! I miss my friends in Riften! Clucky’s sad too, see?” Contrary to his words, the chicken appears to be asleep.

_If the Dark Brotherhood killed Sahkriimir… We can’t trust them. _Kara’s eyes dim. _But I can’t let him come with us. I have to keep Maven from him. I have to keep him safe. Sahkriimir would have wanted him safe. They… died for it. Brynjolf won’t want to leave him. But he won’t want to stay here, either, if earlier is anything to go off of. _

A thought crosses her mind. She turns and kneels next to Mullokah. The boy stares at her with tears in his eyes. Kara offers a faint, warm smile and states. “—Do you remember when—The trip back from Windhelm—How you got so excited—At the possibility of me being your new Dark Sibling?”

The boy weakly nods.

“That’s because Sahkriimir knew—If anything ever happened to them—They could rely on me to make the right choices for you, _dovahkiin._” The Dragonborn’s eyes soften. “Do you trust me, Mullokah?”

The child hesitates. He looks down at a sleeping chicken and nods. “…Yeah.”

“I am going to ask you to do the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do before. It’s going to be unpleasant, but I’m telling you—As Sahkriimir’s _friend_—That it’s the right thing for you. You have to trust me.” Kara whispers each word. She inhales. “—I need you to wait with the Dark Brotherhood, Mullokah.”

“What?” His eyes grow big. He begins to cry. “No, no, I don’t want to! I wanna come with you guys! I wanna stay with Brynjolf!”

_“Mullokah.”_ Kara repeats the name firmly. “There is a Shadowscale in the Dark Brotherhood. You have already met him, I assume?” At the child’s stiff nod, she continues. “Veezara is… reliable. Trustworthy. Tell him—Tell him I asked him to protect you. To keep an eye on you and Clucky until we get back. We are going to find a way to fix all the bad things happening, okay? All of the… death. The rest of us are gonna take care of the problem. But I need you to wait here. I need you to be patient.”

“Will you come back? Will Brynjolf come back?” Mullokah’s eyes glisten. The tears leave streaks down his cheeks.

“Brynjolf will come back. But I need you to do your best, _dovahkiin_. You have to be brave. It’s okay to mourn the lost,” Kara reaches a hand and gently pats Mullokah’s head, momentarily reminded of all the times Sahkriimir got on everyones case about them getting the same treatment. “But we still have the living to think about.”

She straightens up. The boy looks to his feet. “…Why can’t mister Brynjolf say goodbye?”

“He is,” Kara looks to the side. “Deep in… thought.”

“Did you do the same thing to him—That the mean man did to me?” The boy’s eyes dim.

“I did.” She confesses. “It is a shout. But he is okay. He won’t die; I promise.”

“…Okay.” Mullokah sounds defeated. The child holds his chicken tightly and trudges away. Maven gives him a sharp stare when he stops to pet Barbas’ head. As the child disappears back into the woods, Kara exhales loudly. She glances at Brynjolf, where the man remains docile and compliant waiting for a command.

“Miraak!” The First Dragonborn looks over at Kara’s call. She crosses her arms and stares at the gold mask on his face, briefly distracted by the ornate design and enchantments that shift over the metal in a haze of transparent purple. “—Do you know how to conjure a Daedra?”

“Hey! Hey, sweetums, you got a Daedra _right here_—” Barbas yowls and hustles to her side. His tail wags _furiously. _“See? See? I got tail, teeth, bark, _and _bite! Whole package! You need me to display it in battle? I got four paws ready to pounce!”

“Pouncing is for cats.” Kara retorts dryly.

Miraak doesn’t answer, which the Dragonborn takes as a _no, _or the man refusing to cooperate_. _They still aren’t on _great _terms, even as allies. She rubs her forehead and looks at Cadha. “Could you conjure a Dremora? Please?”

“…Why? Right now, of all the times?” Cadha’s brows furrow. “I mean—Yes, but—Why?”

“I need to speak to Sullivan.” The Dragonborn exhales sharply. “I need to ask him about… Gods, I don’t know. Everything?”

It’s enough of an answer for Cadha to nod and step away. She makes for a place with flat ground and a clean snow bank. The conjurer inhales deeply and her entire body tenses as purple magicka flows from her form and manifests into an orb in her hands. She throws it forward and the violet sphere suddenly expands and grows a hundred times what it was before. The massive sphere continues to engulf the area and a smell of wine permeates the forest grounds before a Dremora with a familiar face and dapper uniform steps out.

Sullivan wears a dramatic smile on his lips. His eyes are cheery and utterly delighted to see Cadha, though Kara suspects that might be the response he gives for any summoner. She whistles to get his attention and trots through the snow to the butler. “Hey!”

“Lady Kara—Summoner Mage—How wonderful to see you here in a desolate wasteland! The snow is full of frozen death and solace.” The butler takes a bow.

“You can—” Cadha looks to the side. “—Just—Call me Cadha, now. We’re past _Mage._”

“Very well, Summoner Cadha! How may I ever be of service to you today? My schedule is clear as the sky is cloudy!” the Dremora cheerfully quips.

Behind her, back with the dragons, Kara hears Brynjolf suddenly gasp and come out of the effect of her thu’um. She shifts to hide partially behind Cadha and peeks around the half-Nord to find Brynjolf’s seething glare directed at _her. _The Dragonborn gives him an apologetic stare before she shifts her attention back to the Dremora. “—I was wondering, well. We’re at… Well. A lot has happened. I found out,” Kara pulls the Sigil Stone from her pocket and holds it up. “One of… One of my friends, a long time ago, supposedly washed up on shore with this. The Speaker of the Brotherhood said it’s a—”

“A Sigil Stone! How in Oblivion did that get to Mundus?” Sullivan’s brows rise.

“It’s really a Sigil Stone, then?” Kara stares. “Would it—Would it work?”

“If you found an inactive Oblivion gate.” The Dremora butler nods. “I must inquire, my Lady, do you intend to seek out a gate to Oblivion and open it? That is a _profoundly _dangerous concept! Naturally speaking, I must advise against it.”

Kara ignores him and turns back to face Brynjolf, Miraak, Maven, the dragons, and Barbas the short distance away. The Dragonborn’s eyes narrow and she stares at Brynjolf, matching his furious stare with one of her own resolve. “Brynjolf!”

The man’s fists clench. “_Yes, _lass?”

“I always knew Sahkriimir would die eventually,” Kara’s eyes gleam with stories of her own, of a universe from the past where she fell from the mountain and the sky fell. “This was meant to be temporary for them! A punishment! That’s the way this universe goes! It all exists to punish them, to make them suffer—”

“Why are you telling me this, Kara?” The Nord growls from where he stands. “Do you have _any idea _what that damned jester told me in there?”

“No.” Kara’s gaze remains.

“He kissed them. They danced. They… Him…” the man exhales sharply and shakes his head. “Talos, and I can’t even ask lassie for their side of it! They’re _dead! _What was the point? To rub it in my face? That lassie’d always go back to that man in motley?”

The Dragonborn stiffens. _Oh. That’s what… Cicero… Oh, Artemis. _

But she can’t show sympathy when so much else has to be done. She feels bad, and she acknowledges every bit of her use of the Bend Will shout as wrong, but Kara strides to the now-quiet man and stares up at him. “I’m sorry, Brynjolf. But I need you to listen now!”

“Is there a point?” The thief growls. “Want to twist the knife a little deeper?”

“I knew from the moment I woke up on a cart bound for Helgen, from the second I realized they were in mortal flesh, a _prisoner, _that there was the possibility they would die! They accepted that, Brynjolf! It was their fate in this cycle; to suffer until death took,” Kara averts her gaze. She can see the tension welling up in the man, a fickle mix of feelings that grief tends to inspire. She inhales deeply. “—They believed they would be called back to their Lord’s side, to serve him once more as the Champion of Sheogorath. This was Sheogorath’s way of calling them back. Maybe their mortal form is gone—The body’s deceased—But they still exist, _somewhere. _I intend to end Sheogorath’s grip on their soul and free them.”

Brynjolf’s shoulders slump. He shuts his eyes and exhales. “You expect me to go along with all of this, lass? Just like _that?_ After—"

_“No, _Brynjolf," the Dragonborn cuts him off. “But if you did—If we’re successful—Maybe you can see them again. And I think that’s what you really want. Even if you’re angry. Hurt. Betrayed. I'm not telling you not to feel those things, damnit! I'm telling you that maybe... If you do come... Maybe things aren't over yet.”

“My Lady—” Sullivan interrupts the Dragonborn’s spiel. The Dremora clears his throat and loudly states. “I… believe I can add something to that.”

“Please, we could use all the information we can get.” Kara snaps her head in the Dremora’s direction. She crosses her arms.

“Lord Sanguine was called just short of my summoning here to attend a meeting proposed by Lord Jyggalag, the Prince of Order,” the butler licks his lips and looks across the snow. “Normally… Those of us who choose to serve—We can follow our Princes, act as guards during meetings of these types. But it was not a formal meeting, my Lady. It was… a call to arms, I believe. An emergency. Only the Princes were given summons. I believe it has to do with Lord Sheogorath.”

“The Throat of the World.” Kara whispers. Her eyes are big and wide. She looks back at Miraak. “—Do—Do you think that could be it? Those sounds, the sights, the _magic_ we felt flying here?”

The First Dragonborn is still. His voice is faint, almost perplexed. “…Perhaps. It reeked of Daedric power… But the calls of _dov _sang at its feet.”

“But it hasn’t been two months.” Kara rubs her forehead. “Clavicus said two months!”

“It’s been a month and, what? A week? Some days? Since then? Going back and forth, just—Time is hard to keep track of. But it wasn’t two months, Kara.” Vex says.

“Yeah, the whole two months thing… that right there was a right and tighty estimate. Can’t apologize, won’t, y’know how it goes.” Barbas barks.

“He must have invaded early. He must have. We—We must have witnessed Alduin opening a gate, or portal, or _something _to the Shivering Isles. Right? At the Throat of the World!” Kara throws her hands into the air. “The Wolrd-Eater’s invaded! And that—That’s why Sahkriimir was called back—That has to be it—Sheogorath’s a Prince of Madness, he wouldn’t risk battling the World-Eater without his champion at his side!”

“It’s a solid possibility, my Lady.” Sullivan clasps his hands behind his back and nods. “Given how Time flows different across the planes of Oblivion and Mundus—It is possible enough time passed in the Shivering Isles for Sheogorath to rally the _zaam mey tiid _and prepare defenses. Perhaps you can follow the path the World-Eater took to get into the Isles?”

“_Tiid-Ahraan.”_ Kara nods. “The Time-Wound. It’s there, at the summit. That must be how Alduin crossed to Oblivion. He—He found a way to use it as a gate. I hope. I think.”

Sullivan suddenly dispels into a sphere of purple magic, which fades away slowly. Cadha pants and wipes sweat from her brows. She looks over at the others. “—Sorry. I couldn’t keep him here any longer.”

“Eh, it was long enough.” Vex remarks. “Right, Kara?”

The Dragonborn looks at the snow falling from above. “Miraak, can you fly us to the summit? Please?”

“No.” The First Dragonborn snaps. Kara growls at him and raises a finger when the man chuckles and turns to Sahrotaar. The serpentine dragon lifts its head and hisses. Miraak pats the dragon’s neck and inhales deeply before he adds, “—But _they_ can.”


	42. fall of the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord of Order has called Nocturnal and the other Princes to the Crystal Lattice for an emergency summons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh warning molag bal is there for a bit  
and fuck that daedra seriously
> 
> this chapter is from nocturnal's perspective because Yes  
thank u for reading <3 almost doooone with this story oh boy

The air is unusually somber when she slips into the room. It isn’t the first time most of them have been there, but the Crystal Lattice is just as orderly and rigid as it was when she and her fellow Princes first graced its halls. In the time since, Jyggalag has expanded the initial castle to a sprawling labyrinth of identical keeps and catacomb-like tunnels that spiral and shift geometrically throughout the air. As natural-defining as it could be, there is something very _off _about the nature of his impeccable plane of Oblivion. She can’t put a finger on it, so she ignores it and moves on to the bigger picture.

She takes a seat at a grand circular table, crystal-clear. Constructs without will, each a compilation of crystal clusters and pulsating magic, line the one entrance to the room. Her eyes are swift; she finds them posted in sets of four on all other walls and sets of two at windows. The meeting hall is foreboding in that nature, but she does not suspect a trap. It has been too long; the Prince of Order is a studious entity and one with pure, raw Order in his veins. He will not risk throwing away everything when some of the most powerful et’Ada walk his plane of Oblivion.

Her being one of them.

Queen of Murk, Lady Luck and the Night Mistress, _Nocturnal _finds a seat at the curve of table closest to the doors. She feels sets of eyes follow her movements, but she heeds _them _no attention. A great upheaval of power is in play and the Prince of Knowledge and Fate cannot lash out against her regardless how much he vies the opportunity, and she _firmly _believes he wishes such.

_Unfortunate, Mora. _Nocturnal smiles and folds her legs under her on the seat. _But the mortal made an offer. It’s only… business. _

The wretched abyss’ single, calcified eye and foul tendrils of darkness focus only on her.

Nocturnal finds the lack of corvids on her shoulders and arms disappointing. Her midnight followers are as beautiful as the shadows themselves. She longs for the company of the avians, far superior than any of her wretched Daedric kin. The only one who might be tolerable is Azura, and that is solely on the two’ metaphorical kinship opposed to any _actual _bond. She finds it comical how her _sibling _can stand to sit next to the drunken fool and holier-than-hour beacon of light. Sanguine and Meridia both seem like the company one leaves behind before attending a party, not before, but sure-enough: Azura’s scantily-clad form appears content lingering near the two Princes.

At present time, only herself, scandalous Azura, intoxicated Sanguine, wretched Mora, and vermin-worm Peryite are present. Nocturnal knows more linger outside, and that Jyggalag has sent summons to all but Mehrunes Dagon. She knows the Prince of Order predicts a fair turnout rate: there is no reason not to hold meetings between small groups of individuals, or one-on-one, if the Prince did not believe more would come. And, sure enough, others _do _come. Princes trickle in through the doors one-by-one, made to leave guards outside the castle and stride into the plane’s depths with only their aspect form intact. It is a risky play to put so many et’Ada in one place, but Nocturnal holds faith in Jyggalag’s abilities to assess likelihood and probability.

…and, if worse comes to worse, she might even toss a pinch of luck his way. She’s almost fond of the knight, though his insistence on things following a rigid structure is almost regime-like. Nocturnal prefers the flow of silk, the embrace of darkness, and the shroud of freedom to do as she pleases with no consequence. Such is her affinity for luck: free will requires it to make the most out of circumstance.

Slowly, seats begin to fill. Nocturnal finds herself sat between the rat-wyrm Peryite and the Lord of Order himself, Jyggalag. Peryite smells like sewers and skeevers; the Prince of Pestilence looks as ugly as one imagines a Prince called the _Taskmaster _to be. Surprisingly, Nocturnal notes that Peryite is not as hostile as she anticipates. She expects him to snarl, to cuss, to do _something, _but he holds his tongue and looks around with a smile fake as Sanguine is sober.

Jyggalag’s crystalline armor looks to be in peak form. Not a single dent or scratch remains. It is all a handsome meld of colors, magic, and craftsmanship.

Further up the curve of the table, Peryite’s left-hand neighbor is none other than the Prince of the Hunt. Nocturnal’s eyes darken when the great Huntsmen first strides in; Hircine’s form is especially bloody from a recent meal. The Daedric Prince has the audacity to wear only a kilt of skins, pelts, and furs. He doesn’t flinch at Sanguine’s sharp whistle. When the Prince of the Hunt sits, his careful gaze scans the room. It’s hard to make out most of the Prince’s face from Hircine’s great cowl of deer pelt and the skull hiding his head and upper torso, but Nocturnal knows the et’Ada’s eyes stop on her. It’s too obvious for her to miss.

Her gaze sharpens. “Rude to stare.”

“Where are,” Hircine speaks softly, a hunter seeking prey. “the _morsels _that hang off your shoulders..?”

“Safe from you.” The Queen of Murk sits upright. She smiles politely, faux and phony through-and-through.

“A… shame.” Hircine doesn’t look away. He’s fixated on her, and she knows why, but she tucks the thought away for a time when Daedric Princes don’t surround her.

“The only shame is how piss and proper ya’ll are.” Sanguine shoves his feet on the table. The Daedra dons an entire suit of Daedric plate armor; his greaves cling and scrape the table surface. The Prince of Hedonism grins ear-to-ear and eyes Hircine. “C’mon, bud, you can’t be _so _obvious. I let you stay at my Plane and this is how you repay me? Keeping secrets to yourself? Why not let it all _go? _Relax, indulge, throw yourself out there—”

“_Kindly _cease talking, Sanguine.” Meridia hisses from two seats up. The Daedric Prince of Living Energy takes the form of an ethereal woman, beautiful and breathtaking. Nocturnal almost feels a spring of jealousy until she remembers Meridia’s too bright and beaming to have any fun; Lady Luck doubts Meridia has ever relaxed a day in her eternal existence.

“Hey, hey, there’s enough of Sanguine to go around the table!” The Lord of Hedonism holds his hands up and huffs. He reaches to Azura’s form and ignores the latter’s gawking; Sanguine pushes aside the Prince’s luminous hair and procures a bottle of red wine. The wineglasses come from underneath his seat. Sanguine uncorks the bottle, pours himself a glass, and pours Azura a glass—which is rejected, as Nocturnal expects. Sanguine’s red eyes skip across the room. “So, so. Anyone else want a drink?”

“You will keep it to yourself, Prince Sanguine.” Jyggalag’s order is _final _and it shuts up the Prince immediately.

Nocturnal smiles in delight. When she sees Meridia do the same, she grimaces and looks away. Her dark eyes—darker than the night, the pitch of a shadow itself—look beyond Hircine. Nocturnal growls under her breath at the sight of a half-bull and half-reptile humanoid sitting. The grotesque sight in question is none other than the Prince of Domination, King of Rape, and perpetuator of Spiritual Enslavement: Molag Bal. The sight alone is enough to make Nocturnal’s form tense. She notes the rib-like protrusions on his chest, the endless spikes and horrid mace at his waist, and his sadistic grin. When the Lord of Domination catches her gaze, his smile becomes a cruel smirk.

The beast-reptile leans forward, exposing more and more of bare, corrupted hide and skin for the world to see. Molag Bal’s voice is a wretched one as foul as Mora’s abyss. “—Nocturnal.”

_“_I pray you find an end in my darkness._”_ The Queen of Murk _spits _each word with venom.

“Prince Nocturnal. Prince Molag Bal,” Jyggalag’s curt tone cuts the conversation short before it escalates out of control. The crystalline knight’s helm obscures his face, but Nocturnal imagines it to be stoic and stern if not formal. “Order will be kept.”

“…it was… provoked of this one here,” Hircine offers perspective. “His eyes are dangerous… Jyggalag.”

“My concern for summons overrules necessary etiquette.” The Prince of Order states firmly.

“And what concern is that, my friend? You gather us here for a round of drinks?” Next to Meridia is none other than Clavicus Vile, dog-free but annoying as ever.

His comment draws a snort and cackle from the two to his right. The crusader woman, cloaked in armor and heavy furs, can’t hold in her laugh. She slams the end of an obscene great-axe unto the floor of the room. Boethiah’s eyes are dark and bloodthirsty. “—I would rather decapitate a man!”

“_Order._” Jyggalag shouts. He rises from his seat and straightens upright.

The Princes of the Room quiet down. Nocturnal’s eyes gaze beyond Boethiah, where a spindly, spidery woman with four-arms and dark robes smiles pleasantly. Nocturnal’s eyes narrow on _Mephala, _the Webspinner and perhaps the only Prince whose sphere of influence is truly debated across Oblivion. The spidery woman holds a gleam in her eight eyes that concerns the Queen of Murk, but Nocturnal can’t linger on the thought as Jyggalag goes on.

“Alduin is dead.”

Laughter belts from the likes of Molag Bal and Boethiah. Even Peryite displays an unusual retch of soft chortles. Hermaeus Mora’s silence at the news causes Nocturnal to look up the table at his wretched abyss and snap. “You already knew, Mora?”

“We are… _not allies_, Lady Luck. Our truce… dissipated.” The Gardener of Men’s voice oozes forward in a gush of foul liquid.

“When did you know, Prince Hermaeus Mora?” Jyggalag keeps his arms at his side.

“I am the… _Watcher, _Jyggalag. Knowledge begets knowledge,” inky black tendrils fade in and out of the abyss. A single eye leers at the other Princes. “I knew… from the time he tore the… _Time Wound _open… Such a divine force… Truly the Eater of Worlds.”

Sanguine audibly curses. He throws his feet off the table and groans. “So, the ugly dragon’s gone and tried to fuck over Sheo? And _failed?_ Why is every dragon in existence got to be impulsive as a _bird_ with bread?”

“—If you have something to say about my midnight beauties, say it to my face, Sanguine.” Nocturnal spits.

“I need to say nothing. _Trust _me, the saying has already been done.” The Lord of Hedonism grins ear-to-ear. He pauses, leans back in his seat, and crosses his arms. “Still. This isn’t good.”

“Why, my good acquaintance, Sanguine, if it were good, would _any_ of us be here?” Clavicus chuckles and laces his hands together. He leans forward against the table, propped up by his elbows, and peers at the other Princes with a smile too friendly for his own good.

Jyggalag clears his throat. “—Prince Clavicus Vile. Prince Sanguine. Prince Nocturnal.”

“Go right ahead, I _sincerely _apologize for the interruption.” Lady Luck rests her hands in her lap and ignores Sanguine’s smirk.

“I would… like to _inquire… _Jyggalag… how… how this knowledge of… _Alduin… _A God… Divine Firstborn—How did _you _learn of his… demise?” Hermaeus whispers softly.

Eyes turn to the crystal knight, Nocturnal included. She raises a brow at the Lord of Order’s initial silence. Jyggalag pauses, “I was once _Sheogorath._ The Shivering Isles cannot keep its former master, Prince Hermaeus Mora.”

“So,” the input comes from Meridia, annoyed and irritated. “You _saw _this, then? Witnessed it? What were _you _doing there, Jyggalag?”

“The Crystal Lattice has one-way gates to all planes of Oblivion.” The knight states calmly. “I am the source of all that is Order here on my plane. It is imperative my gates abide by the standards necessary for optimum function. I was present at the gate and saw the fall of the World-Eater.”

“Your story… it _shifts._” Hermaeus observes.

“Jyggalag has no reason to _lie_, my dear.” Mephala clears her throat and sits upright. Her silks cling to her attire, almost as form-fitting as those of Azura’s. The Webspinner’s grin is wicked and reveals heinous arachnid fangs in place of humanoid incisors. “He _is _Order… A variation of it, of course. Perhaps his memory is not fruitful in accuracy, but I see no reason not to trust him. Have you forgotten he has not lied in over an Era?”

“The irrational version of Order keeps his lies where he wants them.” Peryite’s rats squeal. As Taskmaster, the rat-wyrm is ambitiously hateful of “What reason we have to care, _Lord of Order? _You know Sheogorath’s power, _certainly. _His interference with _Time… _with Akatosh’s domain… It will end in blood. The Prince of Madness will be slain by the Dragon-Man. Time of a Time. Why should _I _care about the spilling of his blood? He has not threatened me.”

“His universe cycling hasn’t?” Sanguine snorts. “Really, Pery? C’mon, old guy, I know we aren’t all buds and best friends forever, but it has got to be doing shit with your tasks in Oblivion. It messes with souls! Everyone’s _favorite _currency, next to wine.”

Peryite smiles _politely. _The rat-wyrm pushes his seat back and stands. Every individual vermin comprising his form begins to hiss as the dragon-like Prince chortles and shakes his head. “Sheogorath… Since becoming _this _Sheogorath… Has not interfered in _my _affairs. The lower Daedric races—I continue to keep the _natural, _correct Order of things among them. I am not obligated to stoop in and weaken myself when all is well on my Planes.”

“A _generous _point… This embellishment of details, smeared as _concern, _it sickens me.” Molag Bal hisses. “You take me from the throes of Coldharbour for _this_?”

“If the two of you cannot deduce the logical threat implied in Alduin’s demise, I will not keep you here. You are of no use to me, Prince Peryite. Prince Molag Bal.” The Lord of Order states calmly. Jyggalag’s helm shifts to face the rest of the group. “Are there any others that doubt caution and response?”

It amuses Nocturnal greatly to see Clavicus Vile rise from his seat. The well-groomed Prince sighs and throws his hands up. “Oh, to Oblivion with it all, truly, I am _sorry, _my friends, but as you can see—Barbas is not at my side! I lack in a portion of my power. I am too weak to contribute anything and would rather hide in my Fields of Regret than bother in this troubling strife.”

Meridia joins him. The beautiful woman snorts and waves off all the stares of other Princes. “I will not aid you. It is nothing personal, but I have matters of my own to peruse.”

“What, a Necromancer tainting your temple again?” Sanguine smiles courteously at the gleaming scowl he receives. “You know, given how many times this has happened, I think you got a thing for mages controlling the dead.”

“Burn in Oblivion, Sanguine.” The Prince of Living Energies snarls and crosses to the door. She slams it behind her.

A second later, Peryite follows suit, albeit much quieter. Jyggalag watches him leave, something that does happen when Clavicus Vile waves goodbye and scurries out. Molag Bal lingers at his seat a moment longer before growing annoyed with the silence and rising. The Prince of Domination cackles as he drags his wretched form out the doors. Jyggalag’s construct guards wordlessly shut the doors of the chamber.

Nocturnal inhales silently. She looks around the room and counts heads. _Jyggalag… Myself… Hircine… Mora.. Namira? _The Queen of Murk stiffens and eyes the Prince of Ancient Darkness and Repulsion. She had not noticed Namira’s entrance, though Nocturnal _knows _the nauseous Prince was not present at the start of it all. She quickly averts her gaze from the sight; Namira is little more than feminine figure of dark mist yet the slightest glance imposes an instinctual reaction of _disgust. _She returns to counting heads. _Sanguine. Azura. Boethiah. Mephala. Two are missing. _

“Did Vaermina and Malacath rejects the summons?” Lady Luck tilts her head to once side. She smooths her fluid robes. “Jyggalag.”

“Prince Vaermina did not see logic in attending. Prince Malacath told me it would be a great moment to witness, but not to impose upon.”

“Malacath’s all about watching the scorned, the ostracized… Tch. Typical. Guy never has any fun, huh?” Sanguine grimaces. He finishes off his bottle of wine but doesn’t retrieve another. “Is that it, then? We the only ones who give two shits about Mundus? Oblivion?”

“Is it wise to say the others don’t care, Sanguine?” Azura sits up. She lowers her hands to her lap—in a way very much like Nocturnal, something she does not miss—and pauses. “…All of us care about our power. Our spheres. We lust for more, and rage against that which takes from us.”

“I guarantee you—Malacath doesn’t give two shits. Molag Bal, either. Not even those two’s Champions. Oblivion, Mehrunes Dagon would destroy Oblivion itself if he could!” Sanguine grimaces.

“Ah, right. Dagon is missing, isn’t he?” Azura holds a hand to her mouth and frowns.

“Prince Mehrunes Dagon would only serve to escalate tensions.” Jyggalag says.

Boethiah grins wickedly. “What’s wrong with headbutting, huh? Afraid to get your crystal ass beat?”

“No.”

“—Since those of us _here _are clearly interested in stopping Sheogorath and ending this repeat of cycles,” Sanguine is the one to steer the lot back to the actual matter at hand. “I s’pose we’re going to March on it, huh? The Princes March on Sheogorath and his _zaam mey tiid_?”

“Do not be so hasty!” Nocturnal snaps upright. Her dark eyes glare. “Jyggalag did not speak that foul entity’s involvement.”

“Please, Noc, I swear the only thing that goes in and out of those ears is lust, coin, and midnight,” Sanguine huffs loudly. “What else’d defeat Alduin, _hmmm? _I’ll wait for an answer. Takes a dragon to kill a dragon, remember that.”

His words aggravate her. Nocturnal doesn’t take the bait. She turns back to Jyggalag and says, calm as before a storm, “Prince Jyggalag. Was the _zaam mey tiid _involved in the fall of the World Eater?”

“Yes.” Jyggalag confirms the news. It pleases Nocturnal to no end that Sanguine groans and rubs his forehead. Jyggalag sits back in his seat and states, “Alduin was slain by his First-Born. Prince Sheogorath has called the _zaam mey tiid _back to his side.”

“How poetic,” Azura remarks softly.

“Wait! Wait. You are telling me—” Sanguine’s eyes widen. He points at Jyggalag. “_Alduin is really dead? _The _zaam mey tiid _is—They are now actively playing the role of Sheo’s Champ? _Why doesn’t Sheogorath reset the world? _There’s no consumer! If we March—He can just—He can keep restarting the cycles!”

“About that…” Hermaeus Mora’s voice trickles out in eerie croons. “…It… turns out… The universe has… _decided_ on a… consumer.”

Hircine’s eyes shift to the wretched abyss. The Prince of the Hunt has been quiet until now, attention locked on a different prey, but his attention becomes piped by the words. He sits up and rolls his shoulders. “_Pray tell, _whom is this mysterious consumer?”

“Kara Dragonborn.” Hermaeus gurgles.

Nocturnal breaks out in laughter. She shakes her head and turns to Sanguine, eying him from up the curve of the table. “—Oh, Sanguine, isn’t that just _lovely? _All this time, right under your nose, that gracious, polite, loyal lover of yours has been the one keeping Sheogorath from spiraling out of control!”

“How is that possible? She’s not—She died! On _Earth! _She died,” the Lord of Debauchery is genuinely baffled. “She was _murdered. _On Earth, in the past cycle—I brought her back! That’s why I’m _weak!” _

“The… universe dictates… who _is _or _is _not the… consumer… In Kara’s case…” Mora’s tendrils dance around the mouth of the abyss, entangled in darkness. “She… is still _from _Earth… It is the requisite… Not an existing _life. _If she lives… I believe Sheogorath cannot reset… He must fight.”

“_Mora._” It’s clear Sanguine’s patience has suddenly shattered and cracked when the skin of his Dremora-aspect begins to shudder and shake beneath his armor. The Lord of Indulgence seethes with a newfound anger. _“How’d in Oblivion did you find out about this?”_

“She offered herself. The knowledge of _Earth… _It is mine. And it… It made me _realize_.” The Gardener of Men whispers.

“Sanguine, Sanguine. Did you honestly think that woman would settle for you? She’s every bit the manipulative bastard as the lot of us, truly.” Nocturnal hums thoughtfully and smirks when the Lord of Indulgence’s glare lands on her form. “She made a deal with me, too. _Two _of them.”

Sanguine’s growl is music to Nocturnal’s ears. “What, the Queen of Murk’s become the Queen of Truth now? What are you, an Aedra now? _You hagraven!”_

“It is not my problem she has her sights set elsewhere. She is now a Daedra, isn’t she? She carries the lust for power that dwells in all of us. You would never keep her out of our hands.”

“She doesn’t _want _this—She wants freedom! That’s her desire! Not Daedric politics!” Sanguine roars back.

“My apologies for not informing you sooner,” Nocturnal flutters her eyelashes. “What can I say, I’m all about bringing things into the open.”

“Are you?” It dawns on Nocturnal she might have stepped over a line with the Prince of Indulgences. She meets his gaze without fear and retains her smile as Sanguine snaps. “All about being _honest _and _truthful, _Nocturnal?”

“I have nothing to hide from you.” Her smile grows, sweet as honey.

“’Cause last I checked,” and it is calm, friendly, increasingly-drunk Sanguine that begins to talk, yet every bit as malicious and vile as a drunk asshole could be. “You have a _lot _of thoughts in your head, Nocturnal. You have _desires. Needs. Wants. _That’s my sphere, y’know, it’s only natural I take this as the opportunity to _help you out _with ‘em! Do the words _moonless hunt _mean anything to you?”

Nocturnal pauses. “No. Never.”

“Funny, funny,” Sanguine shoves his chair back, stands up, and walks to her. He takes the seat next to Nocturnal, previously occupied by Peryite, and throws arms around her neck. “Because I _distinctly _remember every single thought you’ve had about that night, Nocturnal! Every single second of your _chase. _And it _fascinates _me to no end how much _animosity _you two keep projecting at the other when the only thing you want—"

_“Prince Sanguine,_ your past debauchery has led to expulsions at other meetings. Do you intend to repeat history?” Jyggalag snaps this time, showing the briefest hint of frustration in tense knuckles and cold tone.

“Oh no, not me, nah, go right ahead! I’m just trying to help these two out.” Sanguine waves the Lord of Order on. He leans back in his seat, conveniently allowing Nocturnal to catch Hircine’s gaze.

Oblivion, she intends to murder Sanguine for all he’s worth once the Sheogorath problem is dealt with. She intends to rip and dismantle every single thing that matters to him, starting most _definitely _with the consumer walking the plane of Mundus. Only Sanguine would have the audacity to mention the moonless night of well past an Era ago. What happened between herself and Hircine is irrelevant; he is far too egoistical for Nocturnal to consider repeating the encounter no matter her wants.

_Always vying to be the one on top, full of endurance no matter the darkness, _Nocturnal grimaces and looks away. _Competitive bastard doesn’t even care about his own needs. Oblivion forbid someone wants to take control. He wants to give, and give, and… And… He’s filthy. Filthy as a hound. _

Oblivion, she needs a long bout of meditation in the Evergloam after this. Now she’s _thinking _about the Huntsmen and his game of chase and all the delights it can end in.

“Jyggalag.”

Nocturnal is almost grateful when Namira speaks. The latter’s voice causes no less than three Princes in the room to flinch, Nocturnal included, and the longer the Repulsion’s voice drawls on the more and more nauseating and offputting the Prince’s presence becomes. Nocturnal begins to fidget in her seat, but she sees Sanguine and Boethiah do the same.

“We must _consider_, Lord of Order, the appropriate time to… March.” The dark figure twirls a strand of mist in two featureless ‘fingers.’ Nocturnal tastes bile in the back of her mouth when she stares too long. When Namira continues, Nocturnal fights a vicious urge to heave, “—You want to March immediately. Will this not be anticipated? There will be… _loss. _Blood will flow… and in Oblivion… It flows forever, yes? This is no mere March. It is… _Atrocious. _Preparations take time…”

“I think it is _tactical. _The faster we move the less time remains for Sheogorath to coordinate his defenses. Especially if he has only _just _defeated Alduin! Surely his forces are wounded?” Azura looks around the room. The Prince of Dawn and Dusk is visibly relieved to see Boethiah begin to nod in agreement.

“We crush that putrid Prince. Put an end to it. I don’t give a rat’s fuck if it means squashing the _zaam mey tiid._” Boethiah grunts loudly.

Nocturnal needs fresh air, away from Namira and far, _far _away from every other Prince in the room. She rubs her forehead. “I will offer a quarter of my Evergloam denizens. Sheogorath struggles to defend against the sky.”

“Do not forget—He has the _zaam mey tiid._” Namira whispers.

“I am not afraid of a dragon.” The Queen of Murk retorts sharply.

“Prince Sanguine. Prince Hircine. Prince Hermaeus Mora. Prince Namira. What is your vote?” Jyggalag calls the four to respond.

“I will not lend aid,” Namira offers softly. “If we March… _now._”

“Listen,” Sanguine growls. “This shithead, Sheo, he was a _mortal _force. Didn’t even deserve to be called a Prince! But _someone _went and gave him a crown and a dragon! And I won’t hold anyone to that now, but I want to point out he’s only become stronger and stronger when he’s done shit all to deserve it. He doesn’t belong among the line-up of Princes. He should’ve stayed mortal. I’m sick of him getting to play around and push buttons like this doesn’t have consequences. I might not have much, but my forces are loyal and they’ll fight when called. I say we March now and ask questions later. Y’know, after Sheogorath gets to meet my fists with his face.”

Nocturnal snorts. “How impeccable of you to disregard your own weakness, Sanguine, to overlook how you went and turned a mortal into a Prince. Is Kara the exception to this sudden code of conduct?”

“Moonless night.” Sanguine huffs. When he’s met with her cold stare, he grins, winks, and looks at Jyggalag. “I rest my case. Vote to March _now.”_

Hermaeus Mora is the next to speak. The Prince of Knowledge and Fate gurgles softly in no more than a whisper, “It is… time to end the madness. We must March…”

Hircine is the last to offer his vote. The Huntsman closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. He smiles. “What… better time to _hunt_ than… when our prey reeks of blood? …Let us _hunt._”

“Then it is decided! Prince Namira will not join us. The rest will begin the March. Prince Sheogorath’s influence and power will be revoked and he will be dealt with as necessary.” Jyggalag calls across the room. He stands and pushes back his seat. “It is time to end this madness.”

“—If you will… I have a _question _for our friend, Sanguine,” Hircine grins wickedly. He turns to Sanguine and asks in a hushed tone. “Why don’t you… _what was it? _Yes, bring out… Martin Septim’s soul. Claim it.”

The suggestion causes Namira to cackle. Nocturnal raises both brows and leans forward in her seat, suddenly interested in keeping the conversation going, “Yes, yes, Sanguine, what was that about… Hmm, how did that one meeting go? You holding the soul of Sheogorath’s lover and bargaining Sheogorath with it?”

“Hey—Hey—That was to _negotiate _for the damn dragon! There’s no more negotiating going on. Besides,” Sanguine slumps in his seat. His gaze shifts to the side. “Apparently, Akatosh’s fond of protecting the souls of individuals who martyr themselves to save Mundus. Funny how that works. I can’t help out there anymore, sorry.”

“So in the end you were _useless._ I’ll remember this, Sanguine.” Nocturnal smiles pleasantly and pushes her seat out. She doesn’t care to linger further on the discussion; Sanguine’s presence alone begins to agitate her, not to mention how disgusted she is by Namira. The Queen of Murk seeks nothing but the comfort of her home plane and the beautiful shadows she calls her own. All of which are far, _far _superior to anything Namira could ever embody.

Though the Princes split ways on departure, Nocturnal’s route to an Oblivion gate leading to the Evergloam is a lengthy walk. She doesn’t approve of how Jyggalag possesses so many gates to other planes on Oblivion, but it isn’t something she can address at present time. Nocturnal casts the Crystal Lattice’s main castle a backward glance before she turns to the Oblivion gate. Darkness melds out of the gate’s rim and seeps into the geometrically-sound plane. Before she can pass through, she hears footsteps behind her. Nocturnal looks back expecting to see Jyggalag, or even Azura coming to comment on how long its been since the two caught up, but to her genuine surprise it is none other than the Huntsman.

“Hircine, kind of you to see me off,” Lady Luck blinks and looks beyond him, just to make sure none of the other Princes are playing a joke on her. Nocturnal crosses her arms and maintains a friendly smile, faux as faux can be. “To what do I owe the _pleasure?_”

“…that… moonless night.”

The Daedric Prince quiets and loses her snippy tone. “Is this due to _Sanguine_’s remarks, Huntsman?”

The deer cowl and pelt obscures the other Prince’s face, showing only the barest of his eyes and mouth. When he grins, his teeth are stained red. “…Nocturnal. You _know _my preferences… I have hunted you since the… _last _meeting.”

“It explains the staring. Rude of you, Huntsman. Have you no manners around a lady?” Lady Luck quirks a brow before she waves him off. “Don’t think I overlooked the way you _drooled _over me. Barely paying a cent of attention to poor Jyggalag’s words. But in case you don’t remember, Hircine, it wasn’t me that demanded this be kept to ourselves.”

“…A mistake.” Hircine’s low tones give her goosebumps. “I _made _that mistake… but monsters are found _in _the dark. I am a… monster. But _you… _you are the dark.”

“If you’re expecting me to bend over and beg you to take me, I’m past it. I’m past you. That night has done nothing but exemplify the true nature of all Daedra, Hircine. We all lust for power… Two of us could never be fathomable together. It is why we seek out mortal lovers, individuals who can restrain themselves from our innate tendencies.” Nocturnal smiles and smooths down her robes. “It would be a struggle and a half, truly, to get anywhere with you. Always demanding control… Never taking in what you dish out.”

“Greedy,” Hircine’s breath hitches. “Wanting… _lusting… _Those are your traits. Always… pushing your limits, wanting _all of me._”

When he strides forward, Lady Luck briefly indulges him. She leans into his touch and moans when his lips press into her neck and collar. When his hands rise to her chest she inhales sharply and rake her fingers along the deer cowl of his head. It’s reminiscent of the moonless night, of the time she sought him out to undergo a most peculiar chase. Such a game was more than fitting for her competitive streak; Nocturnal has reflected on the erotic memories dozens of time since. Sanguine is disgustingly accurate in his ability to assess her fantasies and desires, and she will never give him the satisfaction of knowing how right he is.

When hands dip under her robes, she lets her body press flush against his. His skin is furiously hot. Her dark eyes narrow and she sighs at every inch of skin her fingers brush again. Hircine hisses under breath at her.

“It isn’t polite to hunt someone without asking, Hircine,” Nocturnal laughs at him. “Spending all that time on _me? _Where has your mind gone?”

“_All _I can think of,” the Huntsman growls each word. “Since that night—is _you_.”

It’s a satisfactory answer, but one Nocturnal will save for another time. She chuckles lightly. “Hircine… I know how much you _want _to hunt… but as I said… You and I are not compatible. No two Daedra are.” The warm body leaves her. She rights her robes, sighs, and ignores Hircine’s stare.

“…I smell it on you. Nocturnal. _Arousal._” The Huntsman steps back.

She pauses. His enhanced capabilities as Father of Werecreatures makes Nocturnal ponder. “It is there, yes. I won’t deny it.”

“But you won’t hunt.”

“Hircine, I’m not telling you _what_ to hunt. I am telling you your hunt will end in _failure. _You have my permission to waste your time hunting me. Chasing… Going after what you want _so _badly,” Nocturnal steps forward and caresses the Daedra’s jawline, touch feather-like and whimsical. “But until Sheogorath is taken care of… I won’t think of it.”

“…After.” Hircine’s dark eyes narrow on her. “After Sheogorath—If you want a _chase—_A demand for your beauty… You know where I will be, Nocturnal. You are welcome in my hunting grounds. I will… hold off…”

“There is no guarantee these thoughts cross my mind, Hircine.” Nocturnal points out.

“But they do,” the Prince of the Hunt steps forward and leans down. Nocturnal’s already tilt her head to meet his when his lips crush hers and his hands land on her arms. Hircine’s kisses taste like rain and provoke the most desperate, dire wants in Lady Luck. She could strip him and jump him without thinking straight if he had any less clothes on. Nocturnal feels him bite her lower lip. But then it’s over; the Prince is separate from her and already turning away. He’s as quiet on departure as he was when first arriving, but Nocturnal knows him better than he thinks. His own lust isn’t as well-hidden as the Huntsman wants. Lady Luck sees and she knows his reactions.

_I will see you again. _Nocturnal wipes her lips and smiles briskly at the back of the Huntsman as he disappears through a separate Oblivion gate. _Perhaps next time… I'll consider playing chase once again after all.  
_


	43. apotheosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara and co. race to the summit of the throat of the world in attempt to enter oblivion and confront sheogorath once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea when i can get the next chapter up bc finals this week but  
yay  
plot  
:D  
enjoy  
so close to the end  
unless i extend it a little which i might do depending on other stuff

“I have a question about the Brotherhood, lass,” As the dragons climb updrafts and soar above the ascending face of the mountains, Brynjolf’s voice snaps Kara out of her thoughts. In this ride, she sits directly in front of him on a dragon called _Relonikiv_. Miraak shares _Sahrotaar _with Vex, whereas Maven begrudgingly accepts flying on _Kruziikrel _with Cadha. Barbas is heisted up the mountain in the grasp of the smaller Krusolhah; the latter is delighted to avoid having a rider.

Kara grunts. “Make it quick, when we get to the summit Miraak and I got to start blasting shouts to keep the blizzard off the face!”

“Aye,” Brynjolf pauses. “What is… _Tenet Three?_”

“Tenet Three?” It takes a moment to come back to her, but her memory is not obsolete. She recalls not the exact wording of the tenets, but enough of their general premise to clear her throat and state. “It’s… I think it’s the one ‘bout obedience! You get an order, you take it! Anyone ranked above you in the Brotherhood has the final say! No ifs, no ands, no buts! It’s the gist of that—_That _is Tenet Three, the Third Tenet.”

_“Oblivion,”_ Brynjolf’s curse almost goes past Kara’s ears when she sees Sahrotaar ahead soar into a flurry of snow.

_“—Lok vah koor!” _Miraak’s voice blasts the air, the overwhelming power of his thu’um enough to make Relonikiv shudder from behind. A second later, the air clears and the skies become a beautiful sea of stars, outstretched and glorious. It is night.

“Why do you ask?” Kara calls behind her. “Brynjolf!”

“Mullokah!” The man shouts back. “He—He kept repeating it! He kept saying Third Tenet!”

“He did,” Kara acknowledges with a frown. She should have paid more attention to the kid at the sanctuary, but that was well beyond hours ago and the party must get to the Time Wound. She doesn’t know how long it might take to open a gate, and she can’t take risks when Time already flows differently in Oblivion versus Mundus. It is an unfortunate circumstance that forces her to rely on Veezara to protect the child, especially when she knows sharing her suspicions on the Brotherhood will get Brynjolf coughing up a storm of anger at not telling him _and _for leaving Mullokah behind in the first place.

_But I can’t—I can’t let Maven have him! I can’t. She’s the Champion of Mephala. That makes Maven’s business Mephala’s business and by association Maven’s interest in Mullokah might as well be a big ol’ sign saying ‘Mephala here!’ _The Dragonborn inhales deeply in preparation when snowstorms begin reforming. She tenses, shuts her eyes, and breaths the words of the Clear Skies shout, _“Lok vah koor!” _

The rest of the flight up to the Throat of the World’s summit is smooth, save for the constant shouts Miraak and Kara repeat. It becomes a frustrating and monotonous time to constantly belt their lungs out when the air is frigid, but it must be done. The blizzards of Skyrim’s winter may as well have minds of their own; they return the second a thu’um wears off and make visibility zero.

Though the sight of High Hrothgar should be a welcome change, it brings nothing but sorrow to Kara. It is a ruin, devastated either by Alduin pre-invasion or possibly by Mercer Frey on his way to or from Riften. The monastery is a set of crumbling ashes and frozen remains; Kara doesn’t get long enough to peek out and search for bodies, but after failing to see any specks of red from her _laas _shout, her heart drops and she turns to face forward. She can feel Brynjolf’s stare on her, but she ignores the man and waits out the rest of the flight in silence, save when shouting the storms away is necessary.

It is early, _early_ morning hours when the summit of the Throat of the World comes into focus. The blizzards and snowstorms suddenly meet their maker and fail to reform as a grandiose and beautiful, nigh _heavenly _sight springs into view. The occasional gales stir sleeping snow piles to wake and dance in shining flurries across the mountain. Auroras light the cosmos, and an ancient wall containing a Word of Power looms to one side. There is no Paarthurnax, there is no visible gate to Oblivion, and there is nothing to indicate an invasion of dragons to begin with. The snow appears undisturbed until Sahrotaar and the other dragons land. Kara climbs off when Relonikiv growls.

She walks to the world wall first. Part of her expects to see the Greybeard Grandmaster swoop in from above, offer a word of advice, and… _something. _Always something. That, or perhaps witness Sheogorath stop time again using the power he’s come to possess. Kara frowns as she walks to one edge and looks down. _This is where the sky fell, and I with it. It’s… been awhile._ _I wonder what Sanguine saw, when he showed up, when he watched me die._

She strides back to the group before her thoughts get ahead of her. Miraak keeps back to the dragons, Cadha at his side asking questions of the word wall, while Maven irritably listens to Vex and Barbas have at it with the other. Occasionally, something the two say will make Brynjolf snort, but it’s close enough to a laugh that Kara relaxes at the sound. Her eyes soften as she watches the lot continue. Even the dragons have a degree of calm to them. It may be the thin oxygen from the altitude, or the view of the stars and sky in an expanse of beauty rivaling Aphrodite, but there is something about the mountain that brings the group of vastly different individuals together.

Until it is time to part.

Kara calls the group to focus while she fishes Rune’s stone out of her bag. “—Who is going?”

“To Oblivion?” Vex stiffens. “Fuck, I forgot we actually got to do that.”

When Kara finds the Sigil Stone in question, she’s in awe at the sight of it. The smooth white stone and its strange markings have since grown in size and weight. The strange markings are nothing more than channels for where other cracks meet. When Kara runs a finger down the surface of the stone, her eyes catch sight of a blood red gleam underneath. She lightly pushes with the surface of her thumb and gasps when the entire white layer encasing the Sigil Stone crumbles away. Her eyes grow wide.

It’s a beautiful, wretched sight. The stone is roughly a baseball in size now, but it feels like twenty pounds hefting it with both hands. She grits her teeth and ignores the stares others give her. “Fucking thing is heavier than it looks, okay?”

“D’you need a hand, lass?” Brynjolf purses his lips.

She might be a Daedra—Or Dragonborn, or _whatever—_but she is stubborn as an actual dragon can be, much like her former _dov _was. Kara shakes her head and spends meticulous minutes trudging and hauling the damn stone around. Her impatience grows and her brow begins to twitch from irritation at an inanimate object. No matter where she steps, it doesn’t do anything. She walks across the summit again, again, _again, _until flopping in the snow and groaning at the sky. “Fucking rock. _How do I make it work? _I didn’t ask Sullivan for an instruction manual!”

“I don’t know what an _instruction manual _is—But I could summon a Dremora and we could ask. It would… It would probably be Sullivan, anyways. I don’t think I’ve successfully conjured a Daedra besides him. –Except for the time with the Prince.” Cadha clears her throat. Yards away, at Sahrotaar’s side, Miraak visibly tenses.

“Prince?” The First Dragonborn speaks aloud.

“Sanguine.” Kara huffs. “It wasn’t—Zeus, Miraak, don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be. I made her conjure me a Daedra, the Daedra turned out to be the Prince of Indulgences. No big deal.”

“_To you,_” Miraak snaps. “The _et’Ada _are merciless beings.”

“That we are.” Kara grumbles. She pauses, sits upright, and turns to stare at Barbas. When the dog doesn’t respond, still busy mid-argument with Vex over something to do with the phrase ‘where he squats, he drops,’ Kara _growls. _Barbas shuts up, lowers his tail, and whines at her. It’s too dog-like for her not to frown in apology. “—Sorry—Do you know how to make this Sigil Stone work?”

“Uh.” Barbas barks and trots over to her. “Right, right. So. Good news: it’s already _kind of _workin! All by itself! Turned from white to red, shed the extra fuck on top! You got pure, fine, _rock _right there, sweets.”

“What’s next?” Kara barks.

_“Blood._” For a moment Kara is reminded of exactly _what _Barbas is, because his pitch and tone drops to a low, eerie whisper as he informs her, “It must be fed.”

“What kind of blood?” She frowns. “Anyone’s? What happens to the person who gives the blood?”

“The person won’t be able to _enter _Oblivion… while the stone feeds. It will need to be fed constantly.”

“One of us needs to stay behind?” The voice comes from Maven. Her arms are crossed, and her Jarl attire looks decisively out of place at the summit of a mountain. She doesn’t budge from where she stands, but instead she speaks and projects her voice across the mountain’s summit.

All four others snap to attention at the words, but it is Miraak who asserts himself first, “I will stay. I do not welcome travel on Oblivion.”

“So… Uh. _Problem. _You’re… a _dragon._”

_“Dovahkiin, mey et’Ada!” _The First Dragonborn spits the words.

“Call it what you want.” Barbas snorts and sits to scratch an ear. He grins and licks a paw afterward. “—No dragon blood, no business with Akatosh, none of that appeals with the Sigil Stone’s taste.”

“It’s a _rock,_” Kara sighs and her shoulders slump. “How does a _rock _feed?”

“Sigil Stone is a…. It’s _part _of something more, dragon pal,” the Daedric dog at her side begins to wag his tail again. “Think of ‘Sigil Stone’ like a _name _for a Daedra. That isn’t _just _a rock. It had another layer, a protective _surface, _and a _bearer _to protect it. More than one, actually. It’s… something special, sure, let’s go with that.”

“Is it sentient?” Kara’s brows furrow.

“No.”

“Then I don’t give a fuck what it is. Make it work.” She shoves the stone at Barbas. He lifts his paw and shoves it back at her.

“Can’t. Doesn’t want Daedra blood.”

“Then mine—My blood!” Cadha volunteers herself. She holds up a hand. “I do not know what help I could provide on the other side, anyways. I’m a conjurer, and far from an expert at one. I can do this.”

“You and that ginger broad—Two of you are related, ain’t you?” Barbas sneezes. He lays down and shuts his eyes. “The two of you aren’t full-blood creatures. Can’t be a mix of mer and men. Must be only men, only human to be more accurate. Ladies’ll do fine, folks of any gender of pure, raw _humanity_.”

“I am _not _staying.” Vex asserts sharply. She eyes Maven with a profound dislike.

The Jarl of Riften sighs. “Neither am I. I intend to see this through.”

“Please, one of you,” Kara’s eyes dim. “I need to get through. I need to go. I have to.”

“Kara—” Vex’s fists clench. She exhales sharply after a second and shakes her head. “Fuck, fine, _fine! _I’ll stay, I’ll feed it or—Or _whatever._ But you better—” She eyes Kara intensely. “You better fucking _win_ at this whole thing, Kara. You better come out on top. Succeed. I need you to, okay? To be okay, to come _back. _To me.”

“Aww.” Cadha’s eyes light up in spite of the thief’s glare. She clasps her hands together and looks from Vex to Kara. “That’s so sweet.”

“Lass, Cadha, with all due respect,” Brynjolf walks to and throws an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “That is _not _something you want to say to _actual _people, ever. Kind of strange, aye?”

“Oh, yes, you’re right,” the half-Nord frowns. “I just… think it’s nice people still do things for one another sometimes… It’s meaningful.”

“Save meaning for when we get back.” Kara takes the Sigil Stone in hand, stands, and walks to Vex. She looks the Imperial woman in the eye and pauses. “…Thank you, by the way.”

“You’re loyal, which I appreciate, but you better take me on an _actual date _sometime.” Vex huffs. “No more running around! Dragons! Daedra! You pick something, you pick a place, you and I go there, and we have a _fucking good time!” _

Kara can’t help but smile. She leans forward and presses a kiss to the thief’s lips as she hands the Sigil Stone over. She’s reluctant to move back, but she returns to the others and nods at Vex. The imperial thief offers a nod of her own.

“—Should I set it on the ground?” Vex pauses. At Barbas’ bark, she sets it on the snow and stands next to it. She takes off a glove, unsheathes a dagger, and flays open a sliver of skin. It’s enough to force a bead of red to fall from her wrist unto the stone below, and the entire group goes silent when the stone turns from red to sanguine to a pitch, void black.

The gate of Oblivion _springs _up where Kara assumes the Time Wound is or was. Her breath hitches in terror as the sounds of threads of space and time begin to unravel and fray into a mess of swirling, glowing mist. The color is initially black, but it lightens to white as seconds pass by. Then, in a wave of terrible screeches and the clash of metal against metal and magic versus magic, the gate expands and encompasses a tower of energy and white light. Kara sees shapes in the white, and when she stares long enough, she makes out dozens of figures strewn across the ground and left to rot.

“It’s already begun.” Kara exhales sharply. “It’s already begun. It’s already…”

“Won’t Daedra come out of here?” Miraak points out briskly. “The Oblivion Crisis offered it as a two-way conduit from one realm to another.”

“You’re right.” Kara runs her hands over her head. “We can’t—Can’t let Daedra out, that’ll just—We don’t want to start _another _Oblivion Crisis—But—But I don’t want it to shut while we’re in there.”

“If it shuts, it might open in a new place next time. This ain’t a stable gate, sweetheart,” Barbas offers. He leaps to his feet and trots to Vex’s side. “—Here’s the thing—Why don’t some of us stay back to _defend _the gate and Vex here—And you go right on ahead? Hmm?”

“Are you volunteering?” Vex snaps.

“No. My pact means I got to come, no matter when and where it might be.” Barbas snorts.

“—I will.” Miraak offers curtly, less an offer and more a _command. _

Kara’s eyes darken. “I need your power, Miraak. I need it for this.”

“I did not intend to cross this gate in the first place, _dovahkiin._” The First Dragonborn states sharply. “Neither do my dragons.”

“What?” Cadha frowns. “Miraak?”

“Hermaeus Mora may not control us, but we are vulnerable on the grounds of Oblivion. We have been taken prisoner once. I will not risk it. Neither will they. I discussed this with the _dov _while you hounded one another over stones.” Miraak crosses his arms. “My choice is final.”

“You fucker.” Kara grits her teeth. “I _freed your soul _and this is how you repay me?”

“It is better than the first choice, which was to kill most of you and move on with my day.” Miraak’s retort is not as dry or snappy as it could be, surprisingly. Behind him, dragons huff and nod.

“Well, lucky me, the rest of us are going.” Cadha interjects before Kara can say a word. She walks over to Vex’s side and turns to face Miraak. Her eyes are soft, but they carry an immense sorrow to them.

“Cadha. You intend to go?” Miraak pauses.

“Miraak.” Cadha responds quietly. “It’s been almost thirty years since I saw my brother. I will not lose him again.”

The words must be touching because Brynjolf tenses where he stands. His shoulders slump and the man holds a genuine smile on his lips in what feels like the first time in forever. Even when it fades, his eyes carry more life and a touch of mirth to them. He walks to Cadha’s side. “Thank you.”

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be. But I’ll be there.” She assures him. The woman squawks when Brynjolf wraps arms around her and hugs her. Cadha frowns. “—Too soon, too soon! Too much hugging!”

“Sorry, lass, but you’re my _baby sister,_” Brynjolf sounds sincere in apology when he draws back. He rubs his nose and huffs. “I ‘preciate you being here, I do.”

“I’m going.” Maven snaps without hesitation. She walks to the gate.

At this point, only the dragons and Miraak are left on the mountain. Kara knows Vex will be left behind, but she trusts Miraak to have enough restraint and smarts to not kill the imperial once they depart. Kara exhales sharply. “That’s it, then. You really not coming, Miraak? Just like that?”

“_Kruziikrel. Hi ofan zu’u aan ofan. Bo._” Miraak turns to the dragon in question, the one with dark scales Kara has _zero _desire to go near. _“Spaan dii kiim.”_

_Kruziikrel. You give me a gift? Go? Protect my wife? _Kara pauses, but says nothing.

“I don’t know what _all _those words mean—But he doesn’t have to come, Miraak, don’t make him,” Cadha looks back at the masked man and frowns. “I intend to come back. And see Kruziikrel, specifically.”

Behind Miraak, the dragons snort and cackle. The First Dragonborn remains quiet.

Cadha’s smile is faint and free. “And you too. All of the dragons, really. Even if they are bloodthirsty _slen _seekers.”

“Flesh seekers. Fits them,” Kara whistles softly.

_“Zu’u fen bo.” _Kruziikrel growls and snaps jaws at the air. The dragon’s massive body staggers forward and crosses to Kara’s side. He pauses. _“Dovahkiin, Ofan ov wah zu’u. Fin kiim los ni balaan… nunon rek los kun.’ _

_“Dii fahraan los hin.”_ Miraak breathes.

_“Vahzen, dovahkiin!”_ Kruziikrel’s laughter is cruel and spurs the other dragons to know.

_I will go. _Kara slowly thinks through the words as the dragon turns to the group. _Dragonborn. Give trust to me… The wife is not worthy, but she is good. _

Kara meets Vex’s eye. _My fortune is yours._

_Truth, Dragonborn. _Kara sucks in a breath.

The decisions are made, the choices are final, and it is time for her to go. The Dragonborn, certainly not the Last nor the First, shuts her eyes and steps forward. The world of Mundus fades away, and the Void encompasses all that is and will be to her senses. As she walks, she feels the ethereal _chills _of the Void’s occupants embrace her, but the Dragonborn continues striding forward. When the hands clutch her fingers and lace with her own, she pulls away and continues the trek. When whispers too comforting to be real sing songs in her ears, she covers them and walks on. When she hears Sahkriimir in the depths of the Void, so morbidly alive and well, Kara almost turns back to look. But she continues. She walks. She strides. She walks until the darkness dissipates and she is in the middle of a great and terrible battlefield. The Shivering Isles was at one point a paradise, split into thirds between Mania, Dementia, and the capital city of _New Sheoth. _

In the past, she knows a Hero stopped the Greymarch and set Jyggalag free from his curse. To walk where the Hero once walked makes air fall from her lungs. She temporarily staggers and reaches out, but the only place her hand lands is the bloody armor of what was once a golden-skinned Daedra of a feminine figure. Kara’s face grays and she reels back. She nearly trips over the corpse of a Dremora in full plate armor. The Dragonborn frowns. _There… Should have been a battle going on here? We heard it from outside! From the summit! Why…? _

Time must truly be at the mercy of madness, because Kara sees only the vast remains of a fight sprawled out as far as the eye can see. There is no Gatekeeper to give welcome, and all the Daedra she sees are bloodied, dead, and unmoving. When she whispers the cry of _laas yah nir _nothing pops up but the specks of red of her fellow party members. Kara turns and finds each of them to suddenly _be _there and tangible. She stares and sputters when Kruziikrel suddenly emerges out of nowhere and _is _in front of the group. The dragon pauses and stretches his neck to look up-and-down his form, as if searching for something.

“I felt them too.” Brynjolf remarks faintly.

“What were they?” Maven’s soft tone makes Kara think the occupants of the Void scare her.

“Did your Prince not tell you, Champion?” Kara quirks a brow. She’s eager to fall into the realm of sassy, if only to put aside her shock at the scene in the Isles. “_Sithis _permeates the Void. Your Dark Brotherhood follows the ways of him and his bride, the Night Mother.” When Maven doesn’t respond, Kara shakes her head. She can’t be bothered to explain much less break down how the Brotherhood ties into the _Void. _

“Where do we need to go?” The question is asked with a hint of reluctance. Cadha wrings her wrists and glances across the former battlefield. “What is this place?”

“This place is... The Shivering Isles, home of Prince Sheogorath, the Prince of Madness. It’ll be a nightmare to trek around.” Kara grimaces and pinches the bridge of her nose. She turns to Kruziikrel. “Can you fly us?”

“The lot of us won’t fit, lass—” Brynjolf frowns. “It won’t work.”

“We’ll have to make it work, then.” Kara states. “We need to move. Time is _clearly _very, _very _different here than it is on Mundus. I might not know a lot about Oblivion’s expansion, but I know there is _one _city. New Sheoth. There’s a Palace there. Where do you find Princes?”

“…Palaces?” Cadha pauses. “What is an—Oblivion’s _expansion? _Kara?”

“It’s a Dragonborn—No, no, a _dunmer _thing,” the Dremora grumbles. “Don’t ask! No time for asking! Kruziikrel!”

When Kara turns, she is pleased to see Kruziikrel has not yet taken to the skies and ditched the group. She strides to the dragon’s side and peers at him. He lowers his head and eyes her head-to-toe slowly. _“…Fin dovahkiin laan wah bo?”_

_The Dragonborn wants to fly? _

“All of us. All four of us.” Kara nods.

“Kruziikrel—Please?” Cadha speaks as if she understands the words, and Kara knows she does not, but she is pleased Kruziikrel considers the Nord’s plead.

_“Mu,”_ the dark-scaled dragon considers_. “…fen spaan fin kiim ahst fin lok.”_

_We will protect the wife in the sky. _

“—Listen, it will be a tight fit, but hold on to his back spines and try not to think about us being squished and… And… Yeah. Kruziikrel,” Kara calls down at the dragon she sits on, taking the front spot at his neck “Don’t forget to take the _et’Ada! _The dog!”

The dragon cackles in response. Barbas growls.

Brynjolf winds up directly behind Kara on the dragon’s back. Next is Cadha, who occasionally offers Kruziikrel praise and gratitude in comments equally sugar-coated and sincere. Maven sits at the back, stubborn enough not to complain but wise enough not to note it for next time, that much Kara is certain. Kruziikrel jumps into the air and scoops Barbas with a large foot in the same motion. Then the dragon is off—moving extra slowly to ensure no one falls—and the second the group reaches a high enough altitude, Kara’s eyes widen.

They are in New Sheoth. It appears to be the Bliss District, a quarter devoted to the brilliant, bright, and beautifully colored city that embodies _Mania _of the Shivering Isles. Kara frowns at the thought. There are very few hints of color left, between wreckage, rubble, and a disturbing desecration of bodies where Daedra of all kinds are gutted, skinned, and ripped apart. The shredding of corpses, down to slicers of organs and fractions of bones, flips Kara’s stomach in her chest. She lowers her body to Kruziikrel’s neck and clings tightly. “Look for—A giant government building!”

_“Government, dovahkiin?_” The dragon hisses back, unsatisfied by the command. “_Dov _abide only by—”

“You don’t abide by anyone, shush,” Kara grits her teeth “Kruziikrel, we’re here for _destruction! _Not to govern! This isn’t a republic! We stop Sheogorath any means necessary, okay?”

_“Vahzen! _The truth sets us apart from landwalkers!” Kruziikrel roars the words.

It is day in Sheogorath’s world, ironically.

It dawns on Kara the group is flying over an active conflict when the Shivering Isles’ ‘sunny’ sky bestows light unto the gleams and glints of Daedra in active armor. Each who yield weapons does so with ferocity. Kara exhales sharply and stares across the ground below as swords fly, arrows shoot, and the bloodthirst she _knows _exists in both herself and Kruziikrel grows. She focuses on the taste of bile in her mouth and nausea in her stomach.

It is not _one _kind of Daedra in the conflict. The two major parties who protect Sheogorath, the Golden Saints and Dark Seducers, are out in _droves _and holding back pockets of enemies. Kara sees the ruthless werewolves of Hircine, the crystal constructs of Jyggalag, the beautiful winged shadows of Nocturnal, the drunken patrons of Sanguine, and even the armored and fortified fighters of Boethiah. She finds herself at a loss of words when she spots _more _and _more, _encompassing almost every inch of ground the view atop Kruziikrel provides. She makes out elegant-clad and ever-dancing fighters of Azura, clad in prestigious silks yet fluid in their strikes. She sees Dremora clad in fur and antlers clawing apart the seductive forms of Dark Seducers. She sees buzzing insects, silent clusters of darkness, and Dremora in all shapes and sizes wearing dozens of unique sets of armor.

“How horrible,” Cadha whispers softly.

_“Las yah niir!”_ Kara hisses the shout. It shows a sea of red, until she looks forward. In the distance, where the once-colorful quarters of Bliss cuts off with high-rise walls and magnificent, orderly gates, is the epicenter of activity: a monumental building every bit the picture of a professional government office. And, at the center of it, she sees _black _and _white. _Her heart jumps in her chest with a glimmer of hope.

_Sahkriimir. _The Dragonborn squints. _You’re still here, aren’t you? Waiting for us to come and save you. Stubborn dov. We’re coming. _

“_Dovahkiin, _how close will we fly?” Kruziikrel bellows each word, unafraid of drawing attention when the Daedra of the ground are entranced in eliminating each other.

“Land at the entrance!” Kara calls.

“What… is that?” Brynjolf’s whisper is one of fear and it snaps Kara’s attention away. Her eyes widen. She stares at the building she intends to rampage through, and she watches a _shower _of white mist flow through it and dissipate. The process repeats, and repeats, and it continues in such a way she cannot help but become fixated on the sheer waves of energy produced by the inhabitants inside. It reminds her of many things, of the cracks she’s found in Sahkriimir’s skin in the past, of her former _dov_’s true form and the way their eyes glow so eerily, of the white mist they coughed up before and how it always comes back when they are grievously injured.

_But… the blood... Ansilvund… It goes back and forth, doesn’t it? They’ve acted so mortal before. Yet… They spat up their… soul?_

“Sahkriimir is there, there’s no one else who does that,” Kara’s hands begin to shake. She doesn’t know why. She should feel overjoyed at the thought of ending the cycle of resets, putting Sheogorath in his place, and reuniting with the entity she’s grown to care for so much.

_“Lok mah krii!” _The words are an entropy of syllables Kara knows but doesn’t at the same time. The sound of the shout hits Kruziikrel first, before the thu’um’s power _rips _through the realm and the sky itself begins to fall with Kruziikrel. The dragon is oddly silent. When Kara looks at him and tries to scream, she finds herself silent, too. Not a single member of the group screams when a glow of white in the distance causes them to fall from the sky and crash into the front-right wing of _New Sheoth Palace. _Dust explodes into the air and Kara’s world becomes a meld of black and white for an indefinite period.

She finds the world absent of sound and color, save the voices speaking inaudibly in the distance. She grabs her head with her hands and tries to groan, cough, and cry at once. She finds she landed with the luck of a royal flush: she does not have more than bruises and scratches in spite of a fall that should surely have caused grievous injury. Kara snaps upright at the thought. She hears more sounds, somewhere far, far away, but she can’t bother to look at them when her thoughts turn to the rest of her party.

Kruziikel’s skeleton stops her in her tracks. She finds Cadha’s silent—faint cries—weeping at the dragon’s feet. The lady is wounded, that much is evident in her blood-stained robes and lacerations. Kara grabs the woman’s shoulders and tries to speak to her. She swears she hears her voice as a soft echo, but the look of relief and then confusion on Cadha’s face assures her that the woman experiences the same as her. She begins to motion with her hands when the volume of _everything _comes to a screaming tick up in volume and Kara suddenly hears everything around her. She hears the battle cries of a war not far off, the roars of a dragon somewhere, the sharp grind of metal scraping metal, the shouts of voices within the buildings, and the hideous laughter of a Prince she despises almost as much as Molag Bal.

_“Kara,”_ Cadha breathes and staggers to her feet. Kara grabs the woman and keeps her from falling over. The half-Nord coughs and wheezes.

The Dragonborn’s eyes dim. “…Cadha, you’re hurt—You’re—”

“I can’t find Brynjolf,” Cadha sobs into her hands. “My brother! My brother!”

“Shh, shh.” Kara holds the woman in her arms and exhales softly. “You need to lay down somewhere, out of sight and out of mind of anyone who comes looking. I’ll… I’ll look for Brynjolf, okay?”

“He’s alive, right? He’s—He has to be alive. Alright. He was just—We were just—Kruziikrel—” Cadha gasps and clutches her chest. Kara helps the woman lay down, positioning her in the shadows of the building where a few plants remain. She sifts through her pack for healing potions but finds none. “…I don’t—I don’t have anything—I don’t know restoration magic, I’m sorry.”

“I used—My own—Magicka.” Cadha’s face pales and she hisses softly. “Been reading a lot of _restoration _tomes recently. Mir—Miraak gave me—Useless books! _Useless._”

“You’re going into shock.” Kara bites her lip. She pulls out her shortsword and cuts strips of material from the woman’s enchanted robes. The enchantment breaks after the third strip is extracted, an unfortunate but necessary side effect. Kara does what she can bandaging the obvious injuries. She shoves a blue potion into Cadha’s mouth and makes the woman swallow all of it and not spit it up.

Cadha’s disgusted face would be comical in any other circumstances.

“It won’t give much, but whatever magicka it gives you—Use it. It’s all I have.” Kara nods at the half-Nord’s feeble yellow magic. It is truly meager, but it will have to do. She takes off her pack and uses it to prop up the woman’s legs. “You need to rest. Stay still. Don’t move unless you _must. _Most of the Daedra—They’re looking for other Daedra, not… Not random ladies from Mundus.” She isn’t sure how reassuring the words are but she has no time to care when footsteps snap nearby.

Kara spins on her heels and brings up her shortsword at the same time. She stiffens at the sight of an _exhausted _Jarl, carrying a limp body whose arm is draped over her shoulders. Maven Black-Briar growls. “—Put it _down!_”

“Brynjolf.” The Dragonborn’s face pales. “What—”

“I took it off,” Maven snaps.

It dawns on Kara that the limp body has a trail of red behind it. Brynjolf’s left leg is torn off at the knee. Her eyes go wide. “Where—”

“I took it off! I had to!” The Jarl spits out each word, just as unhappy as her. Maven drags Brynjolf’s still form to the same area as Kara and Cadha. In the Jarl’s bloody pack, after Brynjolf is laid flat along the ground, is the limb in question. It is barely recognizable as such. Maven explains it in words too quiet and modest for a lady of her wealth, “—The world went quiet, you know. It went quiet and—It went quiet. I was suddenly on the ground. Injured, but the health potions helped.”

“You—Are there any left? Any we can use on Brynjolf or Cadha?!” Kara hisses.

“No. Unfortunate, really, but the peasants are as peasants tend to be. Incredibly feeble. There were too many Daedra growing close and I made the choice to cut it off over leaving him.” She touches a sword at her waist, sheathed in a stained scabbard.

Kara wants to strangle her. “You used _all _of them?”

“Only three. They were very good, as you can see. I _did _apply enough of one potion to the stump, to keep him from bleeding out. He owes me, in the future.” Maven’s smug smile makes the Dragonborn scream inside. The Jarl has _no _scratches, not even the hint of a scar or red marks beyond Brynjolf’s blood.

“If he dies, you die. I will hunt you down and cut you to pieces.” The Dragonborn _spits _each word. “You stay here and you defend these two with your life.”

“…Bryn?” Cadha’s heart is overwhelmed in pain and fear. “No, no… No. Why are you so still? You’re… You…” When the woman tries to lift a hand and press restoration magic into him, Kara sees she has tears welling up in her eyes.

“Maven.” Kara repeats the name sharply, patiently waiting until the Jarl glares at her. “If _either _of them die… I will erase your lineage from all of Tamriel. A _dov _does not forget. Not now, and not later.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Maven’s retort is dry.

Kara stands. “Guard them with your _life. _I have to find Sheogorath. I have to—I need the Wabbajack. I need to fix this madness. I can keep them alive. I just—I need—"

Her words are cut off by a fresh wave of disastrous energy. A monstrous roar, a howl that surpasses any dragon, bear, or troll, shakes the ground itself. Kara feels goosebumps rise on her skin. She swallows and clutches her shortsword tightly in one hand. Though she hears Maven say something, the Dragonborn ignores her. She casts her fellow thief and his sister a parting glance before she dips away and sneaks out of the courtyard with the dragon skeleton. In what she can’t tell as minutes or seconds, Kara slips through the Palace’s primary doors. The large set of double doors each have their own theme to them: one is brilliantly colored, while the other is a morose and somber monotone.

Inside leads to a common room, with hallways breaking off to other quarters and curtains hiding each new door. The furniture is split into two sides of spectacular, composed of many colors but primarily featuring green and orange hues. Kara sees something nostalgic about the grand portraits of Sheogorath framed on the wall. She sees him less as an_ et’Ada _and more as a _man, _an Imperial with tussled, unkempt hair and deep laugh lines along his face. It makes her chest ache, because she refuses to tolerate the possibility of it being _Rune _and yet… the thought lingers.

Kara stops at the far end of the common room, where another, more spectacular set of doors await. She hears the conflict inside, and the laughter that precedes it all. She feels a horrible sense of dead when she grabs the handles. The Daedraborn grits her teeth, inhales, and forces the doors to open. Her resolve melts the second the glowing whites of _Prince Sheogorath, Crown of Madness, _turn to her. Her eyes follow his form, to the point of a beautiful rose rapier clutched in one hand, skewering the Daedric Prince she’s come to remember and love. Kara feels the world stop as Sheogorath pulls Sanguine’s artifact from the Lord of Indulgence's chest and wipes off the rapier on a fancy coat.

He lets the Prince drop.

“Hello, Sloan.” Sheogorath calls to her, but it sounds far away. “You’re just in time for our big finale. The apotheosis of the evening! The moment when you realize you’re too _late_, the Princes have fallen, and I, Sheogorath, Lord of Madness, have once again proven why entropy is infallibly ostentatious and I can always trust _me_ to do right by my side.”

Behind him, a being of white roars. The act distorts the world; the Change is immediate and the building wheezes and coughs from its overwhelming influence, air trickles and flows like viscous liquid, and the presence of multiple dying _et’Ada_ swarms her vision until her eyes well up with tears and her breath hitches. Kara drops her shortsword in shock at the long, glorious presence of a dragon possessed by the force of entropy itself. They reflect what is inevitable: the crash of stability, the decomposition of order, and the hunger of Change to consume and ruin and sow the seeds of discord.

“Voldusos,” Sheogorath points Sanguine’s rose rapier at her. “It’s almost time for our evening tea break. Make her death quick. We have croissants in the oven and I’d hate for them to burn.”


	44. backstabber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's time to face the prince of madness and stop him from... she isn't sure anymore, but kara knows it must be done.

“We have croissants in the oven and I’d hate for them to burn,” Sheogorath chimes calmly, the madness of entropy flowing through his form. His eyes glow brighter than ever. The Prince stares at her with a forlorn gaze unbecoming of him.

Across the room are bodies, some recognizable and some not. For a moment Kara is still as she takes in the sight of a large, hulking bird vying to stand. Sanguine’s body is limp on the ground in the center of the throne room, far from the crude, grinning Daedra she remembers him as. Further out, toward the far-right corner, she sees a filleted monstrous hound-like abomination stretched across tiles. Inky black tendrils of Apocrypha have been ripped out of their abysses and left in the muck of blood, guts, and rubble. Kara doesn’t see a wretched abyss reflect the eyes of Hermaeus Mora back at her; she wonders if he is even there at all.

There are two other bodies left. One is but a beautiful figure woven of celestial stardust mingled with the light of dawn and the cool hues of dusk. The humanoid is a staggering mess as the entity exhales and gulps in air. Colors of the rainbow, the wind, the stars, the sky and land and space itself, it wraps around in twilight robes and lustrous adornments. The body is magnificent to look upon; she is as beautiful as she is furious. Her dozen eyes gleam with the light of Magnus, the sun, and her hands hold great bolts of sunset and sunrise. _“Sheogorath!” _

“You, dear Azura, should have stayed quiet. Far easier to deal with than… Oh, _fine then, _Voldusos, take her out first, I’ll deal with our favorite consumer.” Sheogorath snaps a finger and the Wabbajack staff disappears from his grasp. He extends the rose rapier at Kara and smiles politely. “How _fitting _for the Prince of Madness and Child of Earth to face off each other in this grand epic duel!”

Kara grits her teeth. Her mind has already begun spinning from the words of entities far more powerful than she will ever become, yet she raises her shortsword and snaps. “I liked you better when you didn’t talk as much!”

“Kara?” Sanguine’s voice is a mess of agony, a symphony of strain. The ruby red eyes are genuine surprised.

“—This isn’t a dream!” Kara shouts at him. Her brows furrow in resolve; she advances on the Prince of Madness.

Behind Sheogorath, the creature called _Voldusos_ begins to rise and slither forward. An unnatural, vile gnashing of claws, talons, and teeth retch the ground with noise and Kara hisses in pain when her ears ring. She feels Voldusos lurch to the side and sees beautiful Azura hurl bolt-after-bolt at the creature. The dark bird from before, a monstrous size easily ten-feet-tall, shakes off bloody feathers. The avian’s body is made of darkness incarnate and the eyes are a twinkle of a full moon against a clear sky.

“—We are not done here!” The voice is feminine and powerful. The creature leaps into the air, shrieks, and blasts Daedric Prince and dragon alike with a flurry of darkness.

“Oh, oh, Nocturnal, you _annoy _me! Why can’t you back off and give me a chance to make my croissants? Brew my tea? _I enjoy tea,”_ the Prince of Madness growls and bats away the darkness like at a baseball game.

The momentary distraction is her cue to move. She comes running in with a lunge that’s nimble as she is afraid to miss; Sheogorath side-steps the Dragonborn and lightly grazes her left arm when she spins on her heels and slices at him. Her sword meets the rose rapier’s fine blade and metal grinds against the power of a Daedra artifact as the Prince hisses and shoves Kara back in time for another rain of darkness to thunder down on him. Sheogorath’s eyes narrow and he ducks, dives, and weaves his way out of the shadowed arrows and spears. The great bird in the air Kara sees now is _Nocturnal_ shrieks and makes a dive for Sheogorath. Voldusos roars in pain when Azura’s sunrise strikes pierce the white mist of their body, but the dragon lurches forward fast enough to shield Sheogorath with their hand.

Voldusos is a gargantuan creature, bigger than Alduin or Odahviing, Kruziikrel or Relonikiv, bigger than any dragon Kara’s seen before. For a moment the mortal stares at the dragon’s surplus of energy, effortlessly spewing out breathes of ice, fire, and spitting short-lived cyclones that tear floorboards up and pry chunks off walls when their thu’um manifests around them. It isn’t until a large gauntlet of animate metal wraps around Kara’s torso and pulls her out of a whipping tail that she snaps back to focus and comes face-to-face with what appears to be a construct of full-metal Daedric armor. A cape is clasped to the armor’s pauldrons and chest piece, a great-axe is held in the free gauntlet’s hand, and the animate metal shifts to act as a buffer between the Prince of Madness, his dragon, and Kara.

“Get out of here!” A wicked voice spews the words. The armor is no armor at all; it is the true form of a Daedric Prince, though she doesn’t know which one. “What are you, a fucking fool?! Why’d you come the one place he wants you to be?”

“Who are you?” Kara stares at the back of the chest piece.

_“Boethiah! _I’ll quash you like an ant if you don’t get!” Sheogorath charges the chest piece, better known as the actual form of _Boethiah_. He huffs and plays a game of cat and mouse with the Prince of Uprising, occasionally laughing or pulling out cheese behind the Prince’s ear as he narrowly avoids swing-after-swing.

_Sanguine. _The name pops into her head and she walks the outer edge of the room to get to his body. He’s in a full suit of Daedric plate mail, and it looks quite pleasing on him, but the Daedra’s obscene pool of blood drains color from the Dragonborn’s face. Kara gawks at the sight. “Sanguine! Sanguine!”

She shrieks when Boethiah and Nocturnal push Sheogorath closer near the duo, but a swipe of Voldusos’ talons shoves them away. Kara grits her teeth and drops her shortsword. She begins to unclasp the breastplate from Sanguine’s torso, but freezes when a bloody hand lands on hers.

His eyes are dark and a beautiful ruby red. His grin is crooked when his head rolls to look at her. “—You shouldn’t be here—”

“I wanted to be here before Alduin killed Sahkriimir!” Kara utters.

The soft chuckle makes her frown. Sanguine’s eyes shut. “You’re funny, Kara. Alduin’s dead.”

The Dragonborn stares. “…How? It takes a—A dragon to kill a dragon, for good. Otherwise they—They can rise!”

“Look at the white shit.” The Prince of Indulgence groans in pain but a hand points at Voldusos’ glowing, stark-white form. The dragon roars and smacks Nocturnal’s avian body out of the air; the latter crashes into a wall and dents it.

“He called—He called them Voldusos—But that’s not, that’s—that’s Sahkriimir! That’s Sahkriimir,” Kara’s eyes dim. “What are they? Truly?”

“Once _Voldusos._ ‘Zaammeytiid’ was—" the Prince hisses and makes to sit up. Kara almost shoves him back to the ground, if only to keep his wound from spurting out more blood, but Sanguine insists. “—A _term_—Given—By dragonkind. Kara.” His eyes are more concerned than warm. “You shouldn’t have come, Kara.”

“Why?” The Dragonborn frowns. She feels his hand move from hers and rise to her cheek, tender and loving as he caresses her face.

“—You’ve been the consumer all along—If he kills you—He can reset.” Sanguine whispers softly. “I love you, but you shouldn’t have come. Not for Sahkriimir, not for no one!"

“I wasn’t going to let them die at Alduin’s—” Kara shrieks when a glowing white hand, talons and all, _crashes _upon the duo. She flinches and stares but finds her life lingers on the floor of the throne room, though Sanguine’s Dremora form is nowhere to be seen and his armor lays abandoned on the ground. When she looks up, her eyes widen. She sees a shuddering geyser of gushing, intoxicating sanguine-red liquid. The viscous substance has sentience behind it; the liquid shakes and writhes as it holds back the burning white light of Voldusos’ hands.

When the dragon roars, she hears Sanguine’s voice emit, _“Go! Kara!” _

It dawns on her the substance _is _Sanguine, his true form of indulgence in a large amorphous form double the height of Nocturnal’s avian body. She grabs her shortsword and takes off just as Voldusos pushes through the Prince’s body. Chunks fly out and splat across the wall and floor; the room is stained with sanguine-red gel before the substance suddenly draws all the broken pieces back together into one large, imposing shape. Sanguine’s form stretches and expands until he finally throws his amorphous shape across the dragon’s white body and entangles it in a dark embrace. The dragon roars and rears backward.

Azura looks up from Nocturnal’s side, the latter a mess of bloody feathers and broken wings, and the Prince grits her teeth. “—What a _nuisance _this is! Why didn’t we bring Jyggalag? He is entralpy, is he not?”

“—Someone must lead the Daedra to battle,” Nocturnal hisses at her ‘sibling.’ “Or we would have more to worry about!”

Boethiah’s form is a mess of swings, grunts, and disembodied shouts as the Prince advances on Sheogorath. The latter huffs and calls back his Wabbajack into his hands. He begins to use both rapier and staff, expertly brushing back blows and whopping his fellow Prince’s body with the Wabbajack at each opening. Kara can’t tell if he’s toying with the Prince or not, but she _knows _he doesn’t play fair and his power matches that of two Princes thanks to her actions in Solitude.

Her eyes shift to Voldusos. She stares at the white beast as they struggle to rip Sanguine’s amorphous form off of their body. The glow of light pulsating from their body hurts her eyes and she looks away after a moment, but for a second she catches sight of wretched abysses forming over the heads of both.

_“Yol toor shul!” _Voldusos bellows the words and blows an inferno gale through the ceiling, the abysses, and part of Sanguine himself. The latter’s screech of pain is a sound Kara shudders at. She wants to run and help him but her body freezes at the overwhelming sight of Divines wrestling and squabbling to slay each other.

“What do I do?” She whispers. She is not mortal, but she is weak, and even a Dragonborn struggles to find a place among _gods. _Kara rushes forward at Voldusos’ form while Boethiah continues to occupy Sheogorath’s time. She sucks in a breath and stops yards short of the white dragon. _“Sah-Krii-Mir!” _

She has to believe her former _dov _is in there somewhere. _Voldusos _is only a name for who they were, and _Zaammeytiid _was only a term forced on them, but _Sahkriimir _is the name they chose to identify with. She believes it. Kara keeps her shortsword poised and ready when Voldusos breathes fire and evaporates part of Sanguine’s form, causing the viscous entity to drop and _crash _into the ground on the dragon’s other side. Kara feels bile rise in the back of her throat when she hears the impact. but she keeps her gaze high. Sanguine is a Daedric Prince, he can and _will _live.

Voldusos turns to her.

Their eyes frighten her. Kara’s face drains of color but she stands firm. “—Sahkriimir! Snap out of it! _Please!”_

The dragon pauses, as if to listen. For a second Kara feels the hope wash down her throat and relief pour into her chest. Then Voldusos throws their head back and _bellows, _a storm of meteors tears through the sky overhead and begins to crash through what little lingers of the ceiling. Kara shrieks and struggles to keep her balance when the stones drop, but she doesn’t run. She is, apparently, the consumer. If she is, then she must be capable of consuming and devouring worlds!

“_Gol hah dov,_” the Dragonborn shouts. “Kneel.”

_“Kara!”_ Sanguine shouts from the side.

A monster of a man, humanoid and covered in fur and thick, rippling muscles, _slams _into her side right before Voldusos’ tail falls on the ground she once stood on. Kara finds herself head-over-heels before dust settles and she stares. The body is likely the natural form of Prince Hircine, but the Lord of the Hunt is a mess of blood, guts, and gore of what is likely his own internal body parts. The Huntsman howls in agony when Voldusos’ tail rises from where it struck him and _snaps _back down.

_Again. _

_Again. _

A spray of red hits Kara’s legs and she finds her breathing suddenly skyrockets. Her lungs burn and she stares in horror when the dragon once her own breathes fire and flames unto Hircine’s form. The sound piercing the air is long and pained enough to make her drop her shortsword and clamp hands over her head in futile attempts to block it out. Her eyes water and she flinches backward.

_They are gods. _She thinks, she thinks, she thinks, again, again, again.

_Snap, thud, snap, thud. _Voldusos is relentless is pulverizing the form of Hircine. The dragon roars when Nocturnal’s violent screech rips across the room. Voldusos makes a lunge but the Queen of Murk dives and launches an arrow of shadows in her wake; they hit home and embed into the dragon’s side. Voldusos snarls and smacks Nocturnal into the ground. The crunch of impact sears into Kara’s head.

Sheogorath kicks Azura away and grunts. The Prince sweats, but his confidence and ego lingers as he announces with a shout. “—Lookit all of you! Using that much of your power to heal yourselves? What happens when you run out?”

_“We die,_” Boethiah roars and swipes at him. Sheogorath ducks and springs up with the Wabbajack in hand, slipping it in the cracks between the Prince’s helm and chest plate. A surge of entropy flows from the staff and the pieces of armor flop to the ground, no more than grains of wheat and bushels of apples.

Sheogorath sighs. “I tried, I did, but alas—Spaghetti is _not _my forte!”

Azura’s bolts of sunset are batted away by the Wabbajack as if the lot were at a baseball game. The magicka embeds into walls of the structure, though some leave small holes and shoot into the sky. Sheogorath spins for the last and smacks a bolt back at Azura herself; she lifts her hands but the magicka is tainted by entropy and bound for discord. She stiffens when it hits her and color falls from her form as she begins to crystalize into an elegant statue, perhaps the most beautiful of its kind.

Kara holds a hand to her mouth and stumbles backward until her back hits a wall. She stares at Sheogorath, thoughts on loop and emotions spiraling as realization sets in: he _toys _with the Princes.

_My shout didn’t work on Sahkriimir. They’re a god, aren’t they? If they, _her brown eyes water. _They killed… Alduin. Absorbed his soul. They are… They are beyond matched in strength. They are a monster. Sheogorath—He told me—He told me the only way was to kill them, to—To solve this! To end things! Was that the truth? _

The Prince of Madness huffs and turns to face Kara. He holds a hand and gestures Voldusos to stay put, while his eyes lock with her brown ones. Sheogorath heartily declares, “Well then, Sloan, where were we?”

_When does he tell the truth? When does he lie? When does it matter? It matters now, right? It matters now, it matters now, it matters now! It matters now! Why did he tell me the truth? Why did he do this to me? _

He strides to her shaking, panicking form and offers a hand. She doesn’t take it. Sheogorath sighs. “You’ll make me get blood over my corner! This is my _good _suit! I only have one and it’s the best one so this one _must _be good. Right? Right?”

Maybe Sheogroath was right in her dreams, words revealing as they were cryptic. Maybe he speaks truth, that the way to stop the madness is by killing Sahkriimir and absorbing their soul. But if he speaks truth, then she must press further, and she must do it now before the Prince cuts her throat and turns her into a tasty kebob.

“Rune.” She whispers softly.

Sheogorath pauses. “Is now _really _the time to bring that up, Sloan? I mean, sure, it’s a name, but…”

“Rune is,” Kara hesitates. She doesn’t want to admit it, or accept it, or willingly put up with it, but her eyes are forlorn and solemn. “Rune is—Was—The name of the Hero, wasn’t it? The Hero of Kvatch. Gray Fox. An Imperial man who—Who began life as a prisoner. _A criminal._ A _thief._”

“Part of me was or is or could be, my dear, in fact—I could be any number of things, couldn’t I?” Sheogorath frowns and taps his chin. “If a tree falls in a forest—”

_You tried to tell me. _

“You didn’t wash up on the shore from a shipwreck.” The Dragonborn swallows her nerves. “Sheo—_Rune, _the Rune I met—That I knew—He was an aspect of yours. A body. Right? You made _him_ because you couldn’t stand to be _you. _That’s why—He has no family—He had a _Sigil Stone_—You gave him it. You wanted him to confront you. To stop you from yourself._”_

“—_Well, _that’s quite the accusation.” The Prince snaps. “I advise you reconsider such nuanced claims! I expect to see your sources, APA, sixth edition, do _not _forget to indent paragraphs.”

Kara rises to her feet, refusing his hand. Her fists clench. “You are just… Rune… under the effects of your Crown. Entropy. Sheogorath—You’re _entropy, _the Change that pushes against Order, Logic, and Structure. You—You said it yourself. Jyggalag Crowned the Hero of Kvatch to _contain! _Knowing you could never find a way to free your Champion if you were suddenly Change! Knowing you would become—Knowing it would do _this _to you—And that’s…”

_You’re a bad guy, aren’t you? You took the world from me. Made me walk off a cliff to my death. But you were also my friend. You were also forced to become the aspect of entropy, Sheogorath. You were forced to take the crown. _

“I’m sorry you lost everything,” Sloan whispers softly, “I’m sorry Jyggalag crowned you the Prince of Madness. No one will ever understand what you went through, not even me. But,” she reaches for his shoulders and puts hands on them. _“Please, _Rune—You don’t have to do this—It’s not to late to be a Hero again.”

“I’m not a hero anymore, Sloan.” Rune utters. His hands clench, one around the Wabbajack and the other around the Rose Rapier.

“Not right now,” the Dragonborn frowns. “But that doesn’t mean—You don’t have to resign yourself to this existence. Martin—"

“He’s _dead,_” the Prince of Madness snaps. “He’s dead, Sloan!”

“But he loved you.” She squeezes his shoulders. “You know he did, Rune. You know he did. And you know what he wanted—More than anything else—Was for you to be _happy_. For you to live your life!"

“How can I be happy when he’s dead?” The Daedra hisses and shoves her hands off him. He points the Rose Rapier at her throat, tip pressing gently at a suddenly very-still Dragonborn’s windpipe. “How can I _ever _be happy when he’s dead?”

“You have to let go,” the Dragonborn whispers softly, hands up and defensive. “You have to accept it—You aren’t wrong for grief, Rune! You aren’t—” Her breath hitches when the tip presses into her skin, drawing a pearl of red. Sloan presses on, “—_You aren’t the crown—_You’re Rune! Member of the Thieves Guild—Listener of the Dark Brotherhood—My friend—”

The Prince of Madness hesitates. His eyes widen and he draws the sword back before it can puncture critical blood vessels; it’s a relief given she’s lucky the rapier didn’t go deeper in the first place. Sloan feels the blood drip out slowly and her hand goes to her throat instinctively to apply pressure while she eyes him. 

“Why do you keep trying to help me, Sloan? I’m going to kill you.” Rune states quietly. “I’m not…”

_Sometimes people deserve second chances. _

_Sometimes good people do bad things._

"I’m dead on Earth, Rune. I don’t know if you were ever—If you are or were or am a consumer playing _Oblivion_. But _Earth? _It doesn’t have anything left for me! All I have is here—And I won’t lie—I’m fucking _pissed _at you compelling Paarthurnax to _shout me off a cliff,_” her eyes narrow and she jabs a finger at him, “And taking almost _everyone _I grew to love from the universe when you reset it! _Everyone! _You took almost everything from me, Rune!”

For a moment, an unusually sincere look of remorse reflects in the glowing white eyes. Sloan grits her teeth.

“—But—I still care about you, Divines be damned,” her tone breaks. “I’m willing to try again in this _forsaken_ universe full of batshit dragons and magic and racism in the Empire and Stormcloaks alike—I’m willing to try! I’m still _the _consumer, aren’t I? I consume the world and its contents and change it for myself! Why can’t we find a way to change it to help you?”

_“Because_ Sloan—I’m too _far _gone! Croissants are in the oven! I can’t—I’m not being hurt again! I’m not building all that trust to have entropy rip it out! To feel that kind of pain all over again,” Rune snaps and shoves the Rose Rapier into her gut. “I’m sorry. I am. I wish we weren’t… I wish this had a different ending.”

“Rune.” The Dragonborn’s face drains of color. She feels the rapier’s blade pierce front and back armor, cut through flesh, and protrude the other side. When Sheogorath rips it out of her body, Kara sways and falls backward against the wall. Blood gurgles out of the injury from artificial injuries emphasized by the Rose Rapier’s deadly Daedric enchantments.

A shine of white silk ensnares itself around Sheogorath. He grunts and spins around but the webs are already launched and they knock him back. He’s pinned to the ground. The Rose Rapier is _torn _from his grip and when he tries to call Wabbajack to his aid, the staff is snatched up by a dog that comes howling and barking through the front doors and across the room. Sheogorath hisses and begins to tear apart the webs, when he stops and looks at Voldusos. “Don’t just _do _nothing!”

“Nah.” Barbas’ tail wags. “Sorry I’m late, sweet cheeks! Had to take a whizz on the way here.”

Kara stares. “How—”

“We have a _way _of informing our Champions, you know, where we are, just as they have a way of informing _us _of their whereabouts. It is the bond we share between them,” Clavicus Vile’s form wears no armor but he strides into the throne room with a disgusting grin and greedy eyes. Barbas holds the Wabbajack in his mouth and trots to his master. The Daedra leans down and pats his dog. “Thank you, Barbas, you have proven your worth to me once more… I will _allow _you to stand at my side.”

Clavicus Vile straightens up with the mystical staff of Sheogorath in hand. The Wabbajack reeks of magicka waiting to surge, and Clavicus casually hefts the staff up.

“You are terrible with entrances.” Through a hole in the ceiling, eight eyes peek over the edge. A hybrid of woman-and-spider descends, the sultry upper half of a lady fused with the great thorax and legs of a gigantic tarantula. Mephala’s four arms stretch. She grins ear-to-ear, but with a gleam in her eight eyes only the Webspinner could hold. The Prince waves at Sheogorath. “Having a bit of trouble there, my darling?”

“Oh, only the most obfuscate of them!” The Prince of Madness howls and tears through them. He’s about to sit up when he freezes. Kara sees why a second later: a cluster of crystals shoots through his body and impales him on the spot. An ordered structure of minerals grows and lifts him into the air, little more than a display by now.

Across the throne room, striding through the open double-doors, is a knight of tall stature with the most orderly, well-kept crystalline armor Kara has seen in her life. She feels the knight’s eyes land on Sheogorath first, then on her, and she realizes with a jolt the knight is but another Prince joining the occasion.

_Mephala, Clavicus… Jyggalag? Why am I surprised? _She hadn’t seen him leading the ‘troops’ of Daedra. Kara can’t remember seeing his obelisks of Order in the Shivering Isles. _Did he go for reinforcements? What does it matter? He’ll manipulate Time again and—It’ll all be over! _

The other Princes from before move on occasion, twitching or jerking where they lay to indicate they aren’t _dead. _But they are injured. Now, all of them are injured. The crystal knight looks peak and perfect in comparison to every other Prince’s form, even the injured but beautiful Azura. As the knight stops yards short of her and the fallen Hero, Jyggalag’s stiff voice booms in Kara’s ears. “The logical solution is to end the cycles of madness through your death, Prince Sheogorath.”

“Fuckers! You come only _now,_ Clav? Mephala!” The bushels of apples and grains of wheat that is and are and continues to be Boethiah’s current form emit a disembodied hiss.

“We had… priorities, yes, let us phrase it like that.” Mephala’s four hands cover her mouth. She smiles but doesn’t last.

Clavicus takes a glorious bow at all the Princes in the room. “It was _beautiful! _Oh, you were pissed, my fine friends! Especially you, beloved Sanguine—You were _furious_ I backed out on offering my assistance in the matter! Little did you know—We had it under control, we did.”

Sanguine doesn’t respond, but Nocturnal does. The Queen of Murk rises to ravaged avian feet. It’s clear the injuries take a toll on the Prince, because few shadows flock to her form and she hisses in pain. “—_Backstabbers._”

“No more than you, my good friend. I didn’t forget your actions with Hermaeus Mora. Couldn’t, really, hard to miss when you’re the Prince of Pacts,” Clavicus beams.

“It was the logical conclusion of variables factored in by myself, Prince Mephala, and Prince Clavicus Vile.” Jyggalag’s tone is stern and stoic as he strides up to Voldusos’ still form. The white being of entropy stares down at him.

Then, the dragon’s head bows and Jyggalag places a hand on the entity’s head.

Kara stares.

“I know _every _little detail of every little pact to ever be and become and is and are, mm?” Clavicus runs a hand through his hair and sighs happily. “It’s only natural we betray each other. Keep each other on our toes! And now—Now the weakest of us will become _very _strong. Or, rather, the strong will become the weak! Let us level the playing field, friends! Let us be equal with each other!”

_“My champion,”_ Jyggalag breathes the words.

_They aren’t the Champion of Sheogorath. They’re the Champion of…. _

“Pardon?” Clavicus’ reaction makes Kara stiffen where she lays, Rose Rapier torn out from her body but blood continuing to gush nonetheless. “My good friend—”

They don’t know, and Kara realizes with a jolt of adrenaline that Jyggalag does not have intentions to _help _the group of Princes. Perhaps he never did, because he is the master of their former _dov _and Daedra are notorious grudge-holders. She sucks in a breath and shouts, _“Fus ro dah!” _

Jyggalag’s body is propelled into the wall but he recovers with ease. Voldusos’ growl alerts the two Daedric Princes something is off. Mephala and Clavicus draw and summon weapons while Barbas growls and barks loudly. Clavicus is confused more than anything but Mephala takes initiative to summon great silken webs to ensnare the dragon.

“There will be _Order._” Jyggalag roars.

“What is—What is going on?” The Daedric Prince looks across the room, dog at his side. One hand holds the Wabbajack, and the other holds a beautiful iron scythe.

“We’re all _fools, meyye,_” Kara shouts from the side. She struggles to stand, and braces herself against the closest wall. “Voldusos isn’t Sheogorath’s champion—They’re _Jyggalag_’s! He’s using Sheogorath to weaken you!”

A cluster of crystal impales her torso. The Prince of Order lowers a hand and unsheathes a longsword from a scabbard at his waist. The sword is beautiful in every aspect, cut and sharpened to a precise perfection. Voldusos breathes gales of ice to freeze the webs on their form solid before shattering them with raw strength. The dragon bears down on Mephala immediately, far less concerned with Clavicus and Barbas—or perhaps _ordered _to take out the Webspinner mentally. Kara’s mind drifts in a haze of new pain, sluggishness, and a lucid awareness that if the Rose Rapier’s strike was _lucky, _the crystals were certainly _not. _

The beautiful, perfectly symmetric mineral formations erupt from the ground in droves and begin skewering Princes already incapacitated. Between the beautiful stones and the shouts of a divine dragon, Mephala’s form is ripped in two and deposited on the ground before the minute is up. The Webspinner twitches. It is not easy to kill a Prince, not without going through the extent of their exhaustive magicka pools, but it can be done eventually, or delayed enough to the point a Daedra is forever locked in an endless loop of trying to regenerate and having their tangible, true form executed again, again, again.

Voldusos’ tail flicks and slams into Barbas on the silent order of Jyggalag. Though a blast of the Wabbajack nicks their face, the dragon rears back and bellows in agitation. Clavicus stares in shock, not at the dragon but at the Prince. “But—But you were—I know _every _pact! Every deal! You can’t hide the knowledge from me, Jyggalag! I _know! I always know!” _

“They were a gift I bestowed unto the Hero,” Jyggalag runs forward and clashes the other Daedra’s weapon, militantly on the offensive and forcing Clavicus more and more back until the latter is pressed against a wall with the sword at his throat. “A gift to _use._ But the title of Champion never changed hands. It was a simple deduction, Prince Clavicus Vile. Your sphere of influence does not extend where it once did.”

The Prince of Order cleaves the Prince of Pact’s head clean off. Jyggalag steps back, wipes off the blood, and sheathes his sword. He looks across the room. It is not admiration, merely acknowledgement as he returns to his Champion’s side. He is the master of entropy and enthalpy, for only _Order_ could quell the _Change, _only stability could tame the discord. When Kara groans in pain, the eyes of the knight fall on her. The Prince of Order walks to her bleeding, immobile form. The crystals push and gouge more flesh with every second. If they retract, she knows she will bleed to death in minutes.

“Consumer. Kara Dragonborn,” the Lord of Order pauses. “You were necessary collateral. I will not prolong your suffering.”

“Please don’t,” she chokes through blood, pain, and the haze of shock descending on her vision. “_Please._”

A Daedric greatsword clobbers into the knight’s back. Jyggalag spins on his heels and pries his longsword free in a second, parrying the next strike of the Dremora butler’s attack with more difficulty than expected. Kara’s eyes widen; she sees the uniform and she _knows _but she can’t find an explanation. Sullivan growls with a ferocity she isn’t aware he had; the butler leaps back, takes a stance, and stares the Prince of Order down. “—It is inconsiderably _rude _to attack Lady Kara when she cannot _defend herself_, Prince Jyggalag! It is nothing short of traitorous to plot to kill multiple Princes! Naturally speaking—Have you _no shame?_”

“A Daedra Lord in the presence of a Prince and a Dragon God.” Jyggalag leaps unto the butler and assumes offense. The blades bounce off one another; Kara can’t remember seeing Sullivan in extended combat, but she finds the energy to look up and watch and hold off the throes of unconsciousness begging to crawl over her body.

_“Laas!” _Voldusos roars and fumbles forward, slithering through the doors in search.

Sullivan grits his teeth. He’s a flash of red and black in a dapper suit but no armor; though he’s nimble and quick, his reflexes can’t offer the same protection of actual plate armor. His Greatsword dents Jyggalag’s armor, but the latter’s weapons physically cut into arms, legs, and torso. When an unfortunate feint fails and Jyggalag plunges the longsword through Sullivan’s pectoral, the Daedra is banished from the realm in a sphere of purple conjuration magic. When Jyggalag returns attention to Kara, he pauses. “You cannot conjure a Dremora. You are weak.”

“On the contrary, Lord Jyggalag, Lady Kara is _far _more resilient than you!” Sullivan’s purple sphere dissipates and the greatsword clangs off the knight’s back. Jyggalag staggers and spins on his heels, enough time for Sullivan to batter and bash the Prince of Order twice more before the butler is dispelled by Jyggalag’s sword impaling his chest.

The great violet orb of magic is utterly silent when it pops up overhead. Kara’s eyes widen and she watches the butler descend and drop kick the knight in the head. Jyggalag crashes to the ground, a fallen giant, while Sullivan slams the Greatsword into the back of the knight’s head as many times he can count. When the knight ceases movement, and Voldusos doesn’t return, Sullivan exhales and pulls himself to Kara’s side. The butler’s brows furrow and he looks at the crystal structure with concern.

“Lady Kara, with all due respect—”

“I know—Don’t touch me,” she grits her teeth. “Sahkriimir—”

“That isn’t Sahkriimir, Lady Kara!” The Dremora cuts her off. “That is _Voldusos! _Do not confuse the two!”

“It doesn’t—Matter—Name—They’re—Sahkriimir—Me,” cold sweat rolls off her body. “—I—Why are you here?”

“Lord Sanguine did not want me to join him in battle. He ordered me to stay put. Naturally speaking, I will obey him, but if a summoner calls me—I cannot say no! I have obligations to follow, norms to carry out! And I was called, yes?” The Dremora frowns and pulls a hankerchief from his pocket. He dabs at her forehead.

It’s a nice gesture, but it doesn’t help. She groans. “Jyggalag—Called—You—Daedra Lord?”

“A terribly funny story that doesn’t have a place here, not right now, my Lady,” Sullivan looks over his shoulder at Jyggalag’s form on the ground. His concern with the dead Lord of Order is enough to make Kara frown. Sullivan grimaces and shakes his head. “I was—_Initially, _I was a Daedra Lord with one too many debts to a Prince—Not Sanguine, no, no, I—I was traded to his services! A temporary exchange, labor for payment—”

Kara’s groggy eyes widen. Her voice is soft as she intones, “Sullivan—"

“No, no, my Lady, you must relax, _please_,” the butler frowns. “I only had to pick up a stack of plates for him to wave off the debts. I am not in his service out of obligation or debt! I do not risk my life against my will! I admire him greatly—And I desire serving others above all else—And Lord Sanguine has provided me opportunity to work alongside him in a manner of ways, so to speak, one I willingly implore to explore and develop.”

“Okay.” Most of the words go over her head by this point. Her head slumps and her eyes fall to the ground.

Sullivan dabs at her forehead and frowns. “My Lady—Please—You must stay awake! You cannot use all your magicka—If your body tries to heal itself you _must _fight it! A Daedra without magicka does not reform in the Void! You will be lost!”

_I don’t think I would reform anyways, Sullivan. I am not a Daedra confined to Oblivion. I cannot return to my origin point. I can’t… I can’t… _Her thoughts spin, but a blood-curling scream shoots fresh adrenaline into her body. Her heart pounds in her chest and she stares as a sphere of conjuration magic dispels Sullivan on the spot. As Voldusos returns from a hunt and crawls to the throne, a deeply wounded and bleeding form is clutched with one hand. Kara makes out red hair, long robes, and a mole on the individual’s head.

Jyggalag stirs from the ground, healed by a flow of pale blue Daedric magicka. He pushes himself up, rises, and retrieves his sword. The Lord of Order looks at Voldusos’ blazing white form and states. “—The conjurer.”

“Cadha.” Kara whispers. _“Laas._”

The Nord is dead before she hits the ground, a mash of torn _everything _from Voldusos’ claws and rough handling. Kara sees something else, too. She knows the mage’s magicka pools were never _that _deep, and summoning Sullivan—if she was the one to do so—is not simple conjuration magic. She sees the signs of Cadha pushing physical limits, of offering her own flesh, blood, and soul and allowing her magicka pools to convert it into fuel for the spells in exchange for grievous, increasing injuries. Perhaps she was dead before Voldusos quashed her.

Jyggalag raises his sword and brings it down upon the corpse’s neck, severing Cadha’s head from her body. He straightens upright and turns to Kara. “Kara Dragonborn. Consumer.”

“Why?” The consumer breathes slowly when the Lord of Order strides to her side and lifts his blade. “Did you?”

“I did not forget the ones who cursed me.” The Prince indulges her in the simple fact. “You were collateral, Kara Dragonborn. Consumer. Your death was the necessary cost to bring the Princes down.”

_“You disgust me.”_ The consumer stares at his feet, too weak to look up, but the words remain sincere.

“I disgust you? The Princes of this universe do not?” The Lord of Order presses. “Their actions led to the natural sequence of events. This was determined the moment they acted on impulse and fear, Kara Dragonborn. Consumer. If you wish to assign blame, blame them. They brought you before me, willing this chain of actions to unfold as it has. Oblivion awaits you, Kara Dragonborn. Consumer.”

She can’t muster more words, her strength already waned by the last sentence she spat out. Kara’s eyes shut. Her breathing shakes and shudders, sending the crystals further and further into her flesh as she waits for the sword to come crashing down. It never does. Her eyes creak open at the sound of a shuddered gasp, a mash of heaving chests and genuine surprise. She wills herself to look up, if only one more time, and her eyes followed Jyggalag’s helm where he looks down at his chest.

A metal blade protrudes from it, marred in recognizable yet foreign enchants swirling across the surface. It is sharp and stained blue with Jyggalag’s unique blood. A thunderous crack shakes the sky and Voldusos _bellows _in agony as Jyggalag’s body goes limp and drops, the soul of the Daedric Prince surging out of the knight’s form and entering the enchanted blade. The figure grins cruelly behind the mask and plucks the knife out, wiping it on red-and-black arm guards and flicking the blood off.

"Salutations from the _Void, _Lord of Order."


	45. my wings shall perish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mullokah hasn't had a contract before, but someone is about to change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally this wasn't gonna be from mullokah's perspective  
but i decided this would be easier to write and i'm still trying  
to finish this story + its epilogue by ch 49 :0

“What is the Third Tenet, Mullokah?” It’s the third time that day the vampire has asked him to repeat the Tenet.

The young boy’s eyes dim but he grumbles, “Never disobey an order from a Dark Brotherhood Superior. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis.”

_I wish I gone with Brynjolf. _

“Good, good. Remember that. I am the Speaker now. Hopefully—Not for long,” Babette’s dark eyes flicker away and she grimaces. “It is a _dreadfully _boring job, it is, but we must abide by certain rules and customs.”

From the corner of the room, Veezara sips a cup of wine and pauses. “—You are doing well, Mullokah.”

“Am I?” The child frowns. “I want to do well! I want to do good! I want to be strong enough to protect everyone I care about. Like… Brynjolf. And… Clucky.” The young Dragonborn huffs and hangs his head. His shoulders slump. He leans forward and rests against Babette’s stone table, the latter end covered in gross stuff that makes the boy’s stomach nauseas. “Why does everyone else get to go do things? Why do I got to stay _here?_”

“—Actually, I anticipate several of _everyone else _getting back by noontime. At the least, we will have Niruin and Nazir here. That makes, hmmm,” Babette looks over her shoulder at the Shadowscale leaning against the back wall. “Me, you, Mullokah—”

“And Clucky!” The boy protests.

“—_And _Clucky—Festus—Cicero—Niruin—Nazir—That’s good, our Brotherhood stands strong. I imagine Arnbjorn will quit when he receives news of his wife’s passing, but the werewolf was never one of my close friends anyways.” Babette huffs. “At least we get to keep Gabriella. I hope. Hmmm."

“_Speaker! Speaker, Speaker, Speaker!_”

Mullokah recognizes the voice to be that of an enthusiastic jester, the very one who taught him how to juggle badly! The boy perks up and smiles when the red-haired Imperial waltzes into the room, eager and loud to continue with a most _important _request.

“Keeper,” Babette greets the man with a nod. “Say your piece.”

“Lucien Lachence requests the presence of all at our unholy matron’s side—Dear, sweet Mother has passed a message through him! From the Void! The Void itself! Salutations!” Cicero twirls and hums. He grabs Mullokah’s hand and pulls the boy to his feet. Cicero kneels next to him and bops his nose. “—Tell me, tell me, tell me, dear Brother! Are you ready to witness something incredible?”

It pipes Mullokah’s interest. He frowns and looks around. “Can I get Clucky first?”

“Ah, yes, Cicero’s most _dearest_ Sister—Clucky must come, yes, yes, yes!” Cicero springs up and spins again. He’s a merry man and strange company, but the kind of fun Mullokah would rather have than go without given recent circumstances. When the jester darts out of the room, Mullokah looks back at Babette for permission.

“Hurry to the Night Mother after, Mullokah.” Babette states curtly.

It takes a few minutes to narrow Clucky’s location, but Mullokah finds the snoozing chicken on the dining hall table. The boy beams brightly and scoops up the chicken without pause. Though initially surprised, the bird relaxes after and is asleep by the time the young Dragonborn’s made his way to the upper sanctuary. It isn’t often he gets to say hi to the unholy matron, and it’s far less often he’s allowed to let Clucky see the unholy matron; the fact both happen at the same time astounds and thrills him to no end. When he knocks on the door, it is pulled open by a waiting jester. Cicero shoos him inside and shuts the door behind him.

Next to the coffin of the Night Mother is the terrifying apparition of a dead Speaker, Lucien Lachance. Mullokah’s stomach does flips and he inches behind Veezara, using the Shadowscale as a buffer between him and the ghost. Babette’s amused snort comes from the left, as does Festus Krex’s soft chuckle. Cicero stands on the right side of the room next to a line of pews.

“Brother Mullokah…” The voice of Lucien Lachance makes Mullokah jump in place. Veezara’s eyes land on him and the Saxhleel pats his head.

“Brother Lucien will not hurt you.” Veezara reminds him.

“Can you hold Clucky for me?” The young Dragonborn asks. At Veezara’s nod, the chicken is safely and carefully handed over. Mullokah swallows and steps out into the open. He eyes the dead Speaker with visible fear, but he still pushes on and walks up to the ghost. “B—Brother Lucien.”

A body is wrapped in white sheets and seeped in embalming oils, mudcrab guts, and weird-smelling plants on a pew right of Lucien Lachence. The specter’s smile is cruel and callous, perhaps the very same one Mullokah remembers when Lucien _cut Sahkriimir down. _That information was not privy to Kara when she and Brynjolf and the others came—and he could not speak given the Third Tenet and Babette’s orders—but it is common knowledge across the sanctuary.

“…You carry… the _soul _of a dragon.” Lucien’s observation is cold and drawling.

“I’m a _dovahkiin_.” Mullokah frowns.

“Yes… _dovahkiin… Dragonborn… _the Void knows of you… Your kind,” the specter’s voice drops to a whisper. “How do you _kill… _a dragon?”

“A _dov _kills a _dov_.” This the boy knows, he remembers hearing it incessantly from the time Sahkriimir was alive. Mullokah’s eyes dim. His arms hang at his side and he asks, “The mean man was part dragon. Right?”

“He was _not,_” Lucien’s sharp whisper makes the boy straighten upright and freeze. “He was… a _thief. _Stealing the wings of our _Listener._”

“Then why did Kara and the others believe it?” Mullokah tenses.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Cicero’s hand shoots up. The man jumps and leaps and twitches eagerly. “Me, me, me!”

“Brother Cicero.”

“—Loyal, devoted Cicero knows our calm, courageous Speaker lied to the faces of those strange new friends!” The jester snaps his fingers and claps. He begins to dance a jig that Mullokah has never seen anyone attempt before. Cicero becomes happily lost in the dance, absentminded of Lucien redirecting his attention to Babette.

“It is true,” Babette smiles faintly and holds a hand over her mouth. Mullokah turns and stares at her. The vampire shrugs. “—Our Keeper told me it was important to frame the events of that unfortunate evening in a certain… light. We are heirs of the Void, Mullokah, but that does not mean we speak truth.”

_“Vahzen! Vahzen_ is truth in my kin’s language!” The boy declares. His eyes become big and wide, full of a question he wants to ask but hesitates to do so.

“—The Listener… Sahkriimir broke a Blood oath in _lying_ who they were, Brother.” Lucien’s quiet voice drifts in, distant and detached. “It is through… the taking of life…”

_“Laas.”_ Mullokah interjects, flatly saying the word.

For a moment the apparition’s smile is sincere, a brief glimpse of actual emotions before it flits away. The apparition’s dead eyes narrow. “The taking of _laas… _If offered willingly… It is the requisite for forgiveness.”

The answer to Mullokah’s unsung question comes in a roar of winds, the sound of sky, and a retching of different realms briefly overlaying with one another. The child snaps his head at the body and his breath is taken away at the gleam of orange and yellow pulsating through linens, bandages, and the skin of his dead savior. The boy holds his hands up to shield his eyes from the light, but just as quickly as it comes it fades. In seconds, Mullokah hears not the waltz of winds nor the gales of a tempest, but the coughs and gagging of a very real and living body. Goosebumps spread down his skin but he can’t stop himself from running forward just as the wrapped body twitches and begins a struggle to sit up.

_“Sahkriimir!” _The Dragonborn shrieks in joy and tackles their form off the pew. The string of words that follows are not appropriate for Mullokah’s age, so he makes sure not to repeat them, and instead clings to the mummy tightly. “Sahkriimir! Sahkriimir! Sahkriimir!”

“—Off—_Please_—Mullokah—” The voice is muffled and strained. Mullokah relents in loosening his grip but it isn’t the hug in question that is referenced in their request.

“Oh, yes, sweet Cicero forgot about that—" Cicero’s voice is an abundance of humor as he slips a knife down the sheet, the linens underneath, and the burial wraps come off in a sudden display of gold.

Sahkriimir is not agitated, far from it. Their silver eyes shine softly as they reach and gently ruffle Mullokah’s hair. “You better not have caused trouble for Babette.”

“Never!” The boy lies.

It takes several minutes to get the burial wrappings off and fetch the Listener clothes that aren’t stained in old, crusty blood. The Dark Brotherhood steps out briefly, save Babette, while Sahkriimir changes. When others are let back in, Mullokah is a speedy ruffian who practically careens back into hugging them. They chuckle faintly, “Where is Clucky? Your chicken needs you. How else will she get places?”

“Veezara has her!” Mullokah huffs. “She’s been a good chicken! The _best_ chicken the Brotherhood’s ever had. _Ever._”

_“Listener.” _Lucien’s spirit flickers back into view, a solemn figure at the Night Mother’s coffin. His eyes lock with Sahkriimir. “You were given a contract in the Void.”

“I was.” Sahkriimir states without pause. Their eyes narrow. “I informed Babette. And what of you, Brother Lucien?”

“Oh, our former Speaker’s been _very _helpful! Keeping the key locked away!” Cicero claps his hands together. “Silly, silly Listener underestimates the abilities of dear, beloved Cicero and strong, quiet Lucien!”

Lucien Lachence lifts his hands to the shrouded robes he dons. He reaches under and pulls out a very real, far less tangible ornate key hung on a thin chain. The specter takes it off, walks to Sahkriimir, and hands it over. The ghost lingers a second, eyes on the Listener. “…The… Dread Father… forgives your past _grievances_... Listener. I will… assist… you… if necessary.”

“It will be necessary.” The Listener looks at the key in hand and parts their lips. “—Babette, you said it was yesterday?”

“_Speaker_, thank you.” The vampire huffs. She smiles after, and she holds a hand to her mouth. “Yes, it was very chilling. Brought in much snow from outside. I had to go out there myself! But no one died. Well, you did, and Astrid did, and Rune did, but no one _else. _Your friends did not prompt any of us to kill them, even if their blood smelled wonderful."

“What was the stone they had? You mentioned Kara had it in her possession—" Sahkriimir successfully gets the child to release them before blood circulation cuts off at their legs. Mullokah runs to Veezara and retrieves his chicken before trotting back, happy as a clam. He returns in time to hear the Listener ask, “—A _Sigil Stone? _Is that possible? A stone from the Oblivion Crisis? I saw it during my time in Riften, Babette; it was white and far from matching the typical qualities of the Sigil Stones!”

Babette shrugs. “Does it matter what it looks like, Listener? It is a Sigil Stone. Kara has means to access Oblivion should she find an inactive gate.”

“Lucien—” Sahkriimir turns to the ghost. They hesitate, but their eyes soften at the assassin’s ghost. “Thank you.”

“But—He killed you.” Mullokah frowns and peers up at them.

They pat his head. “He did what was necessary, little _dovahkiin_. I broke a Blood oath. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis. But—I am here now, yes?”

“You didn’t know you would come back!” Mulloka exclaims. “How can you say _thank you?_”

“—Mullokah.” Their gaze narrows. “Lucien’s actions… Do not hold Lucien's actions against him. It was not what I wanted you to see, but he carried out his duty to the Night Mother and Dread Father in taking my life.”

“…Did… the unholy matron…?” Lucien pauses, voice forlorn.

“Yes.” Sahkriimir affirms, answering a question Mullokah doesn’t understand.

It feels like the eyes of the room shift to them. Mullokah looks down at Clucky and confirms even the chicken has stirred and is blinking with sleepy eyes at Sahkriimir. The boy wiggles and writhes and tilts his head to one side. “What did the unholy matron do? Say? Yes? Why the yes? I want to know!”

“Speaker,” Sahkriimir calls Babette. “Keeper. Brother Festus. Brother Veezara.” Cicero, Festus, and Veezara nod in acknowledgement at the words. “—And tiny assassin.”

“The others should be here by noontime, Listener,” Babette clasps her hands together and smiles innocently. “Oh, about time we all get back together! Will it be enough for you, Listener? Brother Lucien was… is… A bit quiet, really, he didn’t say much.”

“I’m confused!” Mullokah complains loudly.

It makes Sahkriimir snort. “Yes, you are. Trust, little assassin. You need to trust me. Everyone,” the Listener’s eyes narrow and they straighten upright. Alive again, the exposed skin of their neck shows no scars or hints to the cut made by Lucien Lachance. Sahkriimir pauses. “—The Night Mother has heard the call of a vengeful soul. The Black Sacrament has been performed. A contract has been forged in blood. Will the vengeful soul _please _step forward?”

Cicero’s a jump, skip, and a hop away from leaping around the room in utter glee. The Keeper takes a dramatic bow. “Yes, yes, very, very vengeful, oh, yes! Asking sweet Mother to help guide us, to rid you of yourself!”

“I thought I smelled guts longer than necessary,” Babette makes a face. “You couldn’t have done it _outside,_ Keeper?”

“No, no, _no! _Not at all! Dear, dear Cicero had to perform it _immediately _before bodies were buried! Oh, the agony of it all, to use our dead Brother and Sister in such fashion… Or, perhaps, no agony at all, for it is truly in Mother’s name and honor I cut out the hearts and bones.” The jester rubs his chin thoughtfully and looks around the room. “I asked sweet Mother, sweet Mother, to send an heir of darkness to us! To rectify what took place! Sweet Mother always answers the heirs of Sithis! Always, always, _always!_”

“Your prayer was answered, Keeper. An heir of darkness stands before you.” Sahkriimir states coolly. “What is the name of the one bound for Sithis?”

_“Vol-Du-Sos._” Cicero repeats the words _very _carefully. Mullokah understands immediately why the jester is so wary of pronunciation things correctly: it is the language of _dov, _of dragonkind, and the words translate to a wicked name at that.

_Horror. Devour. Blood. _

“A contract forged in blood will be carried out.” Sahkriimir nods. Their eyes darken and they turn to Babette. “But we must not forget—Amound Motierre spoke to the first Listener, to Brother Rune, before his passing. Rune forged a contract in blood, and swore the Brotherhood to carry it out.”

“You want the Dark Brotherhood to carry out _both_ contracts?” Babette sighs and throws her hands into the air. “I shouldn’t be so surprised—Dragons are always over-the-top, aren’t you?”

“I—I am not over-the-top!” Mullokah stomps over to the vampire. “Speaker!”

Babette huffs and bops his head. “Not yet, you aren’t, but wait until puberty kicks in. At least one of us gets to experience that.”

“Eh?” The youth blinks in confusion. He doesn’t understand what she means, and the fact he remains oblivious greatly amuses the short vampire. Babette laughs and waves him off. Mullokah turns back to Sahkriimir when the latter addresses all present.

“—Speaker, Babette, I ask to borrow a handful of our compatriots. Another group must continue with the contracts pertaining to the death of Titus Mede the II.” The Listener articulates each thought clearly. “We must not falter lest the Dark Brotherhood will lose ground in regaining its reputation. Skyrim is about to experience the Void's embrace, and all of Tamriel will follow. If Kara has indeed left for Oblivion, then I can’t wait for the entire Brotherhood to be ready.”

“Please, as if I have _any_ desire to barter assassins back and forth. We’re _Brotherhood._” Babette huffs and puts her hands on her waist. “—How many do you need? If Gaius Maro is indeed dead and done with by the time Arnbjorn and Gabriella return—I only need one to go after the _Gourmet_. Sister Astrid obtained the information of the chef’s supposed location prior to her passing.”

“Three,” the Listener declares and holds up the fingers. “Niruin, Festus, Mullokah.”

_“I get to come?!” _The biggest smile in all of Nirn crawls unto the youth’s face. His eyes bulge in joy and he hops and skips and dances. When Cicero joins in, if only on the basis of being a jester and jesters being silly, him and Mullokah skip circles and dance together in laughter, giggles, and fun. When the duo stop, Mullokah beams at the faint, warm smile Sahkriimir holds for the two.

The jester pauses and looks at Sahkriimir, “Silly Listener! Sweet, handsome Cicero knows the timing is _off_ but Cicero knows how much Listener cares for handsome, handsome Brynjolf, and—”

Mullokah doesn’t understand why Sahkriimir suddenly stops and their face pales in absence of color. The room falls quiet and Babette arches both brows as the Speaker eyes first Cicero, then the Listener, each with equal irritation.

The vampire pauses, “Why don’t we give you two some space to discuss that, mm?”

“Couldn’t say it better myself!” Festus is eager to get out of the thick atmosphere. The mage has been quiet until now, a careful observer to the conversation, but he stretches, groans, and walks out the room. Veezara gives Mullokah a look and the boy grumbles under breath but follows the Shadowscale out with Clucky under one arm. Behind the kid comes Babette, whose footsteps are too soft to be heard even on the loudest of gritty stone floors. Mullokah follows the rest of the Brotherhood to the sanctuary’s waterfall chamber, where they find a tall bosmer stretching and combing out his hair. The elf looks genuinely surprised to see the bunch of Dark Brotherhood assassins emerge from the back stairwells.

“—Niruin! Brother Niruin!” Mullokah welcomes the archer back with a crooked grin. “Guess what! Guess what!”

“—Oh? If it isn’t our tiny initiative running amuck.” The bosmer crosses his arms and looks beyond Mullokah, at the other Brotherhood members. “Should I guess, or does someone have the decency to tell me where in Void one finds Astrid?”

Festus laughs. “Oh, you’ve missed a lot, Brother.”

The elf stares. “Like…?”

“Astrid is dead.” Babette is curt and to the point. “As the eldest member here, I have taken the role of Speaker. You are _welcome._”

“And Sahkriimir died! But they’re back! They’re back—And—And everything’s gonna be okay, now, so,” Mullokah averts his gaze to Clucky. He pets the chicken’s head and frowns. “Also, we’re gonna go kill someone called _Voldusos. _I don’t know if that’s a dragon or person but they’re gonna die. Can you believe it? My first contract and I don’t even know what to expect! How do I be a good assassin if I don’t know what’s gonna happen?”

“Contracts usually go according to plan. Listen to your superior’s orders and you’ll be fine. Now, if you—” Niruin stops mid-sentence. The man squints at Mullokah and kneels near the boy, dropping to eye-level. “You said the second Listener _died?_”

“The sanctuary was infiltrated, Brother,” Veezara explains. “Listener Rune and Speaker Astrid were slain by a man wielding a Daedra artifact, Mercer Frey.”

“You can’t be serious—That’s preposterous! How—Really?” Niruin balks at the suggestions and his mouth hangs open in shock. “That’s—That’s the Leader of the Thieves Guild! In Riften! How did—Why—That makes no sense! What kind of mad turn of events is that? Disgraceful, truly…”

“Sorry about your friend. Rune was a nice man.” Mullokah frowns. “He helped me practice sneaking a lot.”

“Well, this is all impeccably awful circumstances to come back to. Will I still get paid?” Niruin sticks his hands on his hips and eyes Babette. “Since you _are _Speaker now…?”

“You will, _after_ you get back from your new contract.” The vampire grins wickedly. “Our dear Listener wishes to take you to kill an entity called _Voldusas._”

When the name is said incorrectly, Mullokah huffs and stomps a foot. He stares at Babette, a total disregard for her rank and title as he blurts, “—_Vol-Du-Sos_, Babette! Horror-Devour-Blood! You got to get it right!”

“What a wicked name. At least it will be exciting. I hope.” Niruin pulls his hood back and grimaces. “How much time do I have to prepare, dear Speaker, tiny initiate?”

Though Babette makes to speak, and Mullokah opts to hide behind the nearest Brotherhood assassin in fear of the vampire’s cold leer, the answer comes from neither of the two. From behind, where the group emerged from the back stairwells and corridors leading to the depths of the sanctuary, comes Sahkriimir’s voice. “—None. We leave immediately.”

The Listener is already adorned in a traveler’s cloak, pulled tight around their form. Their silver eyes gleam and lock unto Niruin immediately. The elf sighs and shakes his head. “That soon, hmm? No rest at all, Listener?”

“No. I can’t wait for Nazir, and I can’t wait for your beauty sleep either, Niruin. I know where to go; we can leave immediately. Mullokah, to me,” Sahkriimir holds out a hand, and the boy happily trots to them and takes it. Sahkriimir peers down at them. “You remember how to shout, little _dovahkiin?_”

“Yeah! Yeah, I do,” the boy nods. He pauses. “Do you know how to shout now, Sahkriimir?”

The Listener answers the question as the two walk across the waterfall chamber, Festus following shortly after with Niruin in tow. Sahkriimir’s eyes are full of resolve but their voice remains calm if not quiet, “—I will never shout again, little _dovahkiin_. I accept that; it is part of the contract, now and hereafter.”

“Why not? Don’t all dragons got to shout? And—And the mean man’s gone,” Mullokah’s eyes dim. “He’s dead, Brother Lucien made sure of it! Don’t you have your voice back? Your _thu’um_? You called me little _dovahkiin! _You can talk dragon! I bet you’d understand me if I started talking in dragon talk and then we just had a _whole _conversation back and forth in _dov _speech and it would be great! Sahkriimir!”

“How can I put it, little _dovahkiin_? It is… complicated? I will explain in Time.” Sahkriimir shakes their head as Mullokah pulls them up the steps to the entrance hall. He’s as eager as them to get a move on and carry out his first contract. The Listener huffs and tugs back when Mullokah tries to barrel straight for the Black Door. They let go of his hand, cross their arms, and state, “Your cloak, little _dovahkiin. _It is winter outside.”

“But I’m a _dovahkiin_! The cold should fear me.” Mulllokah groans. He looks down at Clucky, frowns, and reconsiders. “—Okay, but only because Clucky would need one. I got to keep her warm. She’s my best friend.”

“She is,” Sahkriimir agrees wholeheartedly.

“Where are we going, pray tell? Since it’s an entire expedition.” Niruin grunts.

Mullokah doesn’t really care about the conversation; he dips and ducks away and runs the length back to his bedroom to find a cloak. He pulls it on, scoops Clucky back up, and runs back. By the time he returns, he’s out of breath and tired, but still ready for an adventure. “Okay! Okay! I’m here! I have Clucky! We’re ready to go, Sahkriimir. Can we go now? Can we? Please?”

The Listener snorts. They reach for the child’s cloak and unfolds it from being tucked into the rest of the cloak itself. Sahkriimir draws it up over Mullokah’s head, straightens upright, and huffs. “You are very eager, Mullokah.”

“It’s my _first _contract.” Mullokah retorts.

“Got to give it to the kid—He’s got enthusiasm,” Festus’ toothless grin is amused more than anything. The elderly mage pats Mullokah’s head and nods. “You’ll do good, I bet. Real good.”

“Listener!” It is Babette’s voice, from down the entrance hall where a stairwell connects the hall to the waterfall cavern. The short vampire comes trudging up, a satchel in her arms. She strides forward to Sahkriimir and holds it out. The vampire has a delightful smile on her face, “I _thought _you might appreciate these. If you really plan to enter Oblivion—The Daedra are going to be _very_ annoying. Only the essentials, nothing new, but don’t die again, mm? I’ll take care of Nazir on his return. Gabriella, too. Probably not Arnbjorn. But the rest of us—We’ll be waiting for all of you to bring news of your success.”

“Oh, so _they _get the potions, but poor Niruin who’s come in from the cold and run amuck murdering a beautiful lady’s handsome fiancé gets _nothing? _Not even a stamina potion for the hike?” Niruin’s brows furrow.

“They’re the Listener, they can distribute them how they see fit.” Babette waves the wood elf off.

“Thank you, Speaker,” Sahkriimir puts on the satchel over their cloak and nods. “You’re skilled as a Speaker, regardless of what you think.”

“_Ugh, _don’t make me rant and rave about how boring it is, Listener, I can and _will _keep you here for hours while I grumble and groan… No, no. You four—ahem, _five,_” the vampire eyes Clucky before Mullokah can start glaring. “—Best be off. You never know when the weather will turn rotten. Shut the door on the way out and don’t slip on the ice.”

When the five are outside, Mullokah makes a point of double-checking the door and ensuring it is locked and in its proper place. He grins and bounces through the snow to catch up to Sahkriimir’s side. The child feels the chills of passing winds and he clutches Clucky’s dozing form tighter to his chest as he follows the Listener. Niruin curses loudly when he trips and falls into the snow; Festus’ howling laughter makes Mullokah smile.

“How do you plan to get us from _Point A_ to _Point Oblivion, _Listener?” The bosmer inquires of Sahkriimir when the group emerges from the treeline of the woods and stops at the edge of a snow-ridden road. “That’s—It’s an entire _plane_ away! I trust you know what you’re doing, but I ask we stay on the same page.”

“I would have had Mullokah call _Odahviing, _and flown us to the Throat of the World. But it is not possible anymore. So—We will do this a different way,” Sahkriimir reaches into the satchel and pulls out multiple, tiny vials of a clear, foamy substance. They pass out the unlabeled vials and nod at Mullokah. “Do you remember what the indent on the side of the vial means, little _dovahkiin?_”

“Invisibility?” Mullokah guesses when his free hand runs a thumb over the bumpy glass edges.

“Good kid,” Festus nods. “Not a _prodigy, _but better than nothing.”

“Our Speaker marks the vials using the indents or bumps on the glass. An unspoken way to communicate the label without giving away what it is,” Sahkriimir states. They pause. “We will take these immediately upon arrival. Does everyone have an extra? Good. Do not engage Daedra unless you are prepared to fight them all. Mullokah, the words _laas yah nir _will tell you if any are around. It will also inform you our location.”

“Like in Windhelm? In the house? You were red,” the boy frowns. “But you aren’t red _now,_ Sahkriimir.”

“…I am not red, no.” They smile sheepishly. “Your job is to wait for my commands, Mullokah. Do not act without instruction. Do not let Clucky wander off, and do not let Clucky attempt to fight any Daedra on her own. Festus—You know magic of every school, yes?”

The elderly mage huffs, “What kind of assassin would I be if I _didn’t,_ Listener? I mean—Destruction’s the best—But you got to pick up what you can! I can’t be a prodigy without knowing magic!”

“Muffle us on arrival. Each of us. Your job is to repeat it as necessary. Refrain from setting the plane of Oblivion on fire until Voldusos is dead,” Sahkriimir looks over to Niruin. “As for you—"

He raises a brow. “Well? What is my job, Listener?”

“Use your bow and arrows. Here,” they pull out more vials of the Invisibility potion and hand them over. “Use after each shot; make them count. I need you to keep me alive.”

“Keep you alive—What are _you _going to be doing?” The bosmer squawks. “This is not clear in the slightest!”

Sahkriimir steps back and reaches for the key strung around their neck. It is almost antique; it has many teeth and looks like it could open any lock, door, or chest. As Mullokah stares at the pretty knob-like end of it, Sahkriimir turns around, lifts it to the air, and exhales. They plunge the key into nothing. Mullokah stares in utter shock when the end of the key disappears. Sahkriimir turns the knob in the air and it glows twilight and turquoise before the color fades and Sahkriimir rips the key out. The air the key was stabbed into begins to shift and shake as if about to crack or crumble. A horrible cacophony of wretched screams, tortured souls, and a waging battle crawl out of the distorted space laying between the snow-riddled ground and the destination Sahkriimir has in mind.

“When I remembered I was to rise, the Night Mother gave me a choice in the Void: To exist as I am and remove myself from the Dark Brotherhood in pursuit of the _lok, _the sky, or to cut off my wings and slay that which ties me to my fellow _dov, _to prove my devotion to Sithis. I made my decision.” the Listener states calmly. “I will reject the sky and choose to walk the ground. Voldusos will die by my hands, and with them my wings shall perish.”


	46. time moves on past this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the dark brotherhood has arrived. first they dealt with jyggalag, now all remains is the beast of entropy and champion of jyggalag; voldusos. 
> 
> kara has no idea what is going on and she isn't okay with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello !!!!!!! i rewrote this chapter like 3 times?  
but i think i am happy with this version... still very close to the end  
there's a chance this might go until 52/53 chapters but i'm trying to get it wrapped up  
so i can start writing my novel :0  
and also pt. 3 of consumerism ft. my favorite companions and a consumer that isn't kara
> 
> (also the next chapter gets to touch upon a special reunion so look out for that soon :D)

“Sahkriimir.”

Kara can’t do more than whisper the name, but she stares in a mix of horror and awe. The crystal spikes in her flesh suddenly dissipate, along with every other crystal created by Jyggalag’s will. The other Princes groan and begin to move; it’s clear they are too injured to do more than sit up or rise to their feet, but it is better than Kara’s current state. She gasps and collapses in a rush of blood spurting out from open blood vessels left in her wounds. Her body slams into the floor; Sahkriimir moves from her and walks to Sheogorath. Behind the two, Voldusos begins to screech and scream in agony.

_How are there two? _The Dragonborn thinks. Her blood is warm to the touch and feels nice, pain aside. Her vision fades out, but she hears footsteps.

“The Dark Brotherhood is… disappointed. To think… All of you did not even _invite_ us to join you.” Sahkriimir shouts across the throne room. “Sheogorath… will be placed in _our _custody.”

“Deal with _that _monster_,_” Nocturnal spits from where she lays, a feathery mess pointing at Voldusos’ increasingly unstable form. “Then—_Then_ we talk!”

“…Very well.” Sahkriimir turns away and looks up at the great white beast.

Voldusos is free from the pact of Jyggalag. Without Order, the crash course toward entropy begins. The thousands of dragon souls absorbed into Voldusos’ system begin to meld and burst. Brilliant streaks of color peel off the white entropy like curly ribbons, only to dissipate in wretched, vile screams of pain when the soul collapses in on itself. Thunder cracks despite no sky, the day becomes night and night becomes twilight in spite no sun, and the weather begins to rapidly shift and acclimate only to plunge into harrowing frozen depths or searing hot high-rises in seconds. The white beast becomes a mess of thrashing, throwing their body through walls, the floor, and tearing apart the throne room and any unfortunate Prince who gets caught in their grasp.

_“Festus!_ Heal her!” A voice barks from somewhere far away. It sounds like Sahkriimir, too, but Kara isn’t sure which Sahkriimir is Sahkriimir by now.

Hands roll her unto her back. Sahkriimir’s form disappears in a flurry of white entropy and misty, foggy waves of energy. Hands shove into her gut and Kara cries out in pain at the pressure first, then at the magic that follows. The restoration magic that flows into her body is disgustingly crude; it borders on corrosive, but she feels her body respond to it in a way that rips the damaged cells together and forces flesh to mend. The Dragonborn squirms and writhes weakly throughout the process. Her vision returns to her and she finds herself looking up at the familiar face of an older man donned in black-and-red robes.

“Festus Krex?” Kara mumbles in confusion. Her eyes lock with the mage’s and the elder holds a hand to his lips, then extends a hand. She takes it; he yanks her to her feet with no concern of her tender or sore, formerly _impaled _flesh.

Nearby, she sees the source of the one who yelled before. It is Sahkriimir, except Sahkriimir is dancing around the white dragon of entropy and nimbly tempting death. Kara’s bewilderment is met with one of the Sahkriimir kneeling near Sheogorath’s crumpled corpse, where they plunge the Skeleton Key into the Prince’s flesh and turn it. The key begins to glow with Daedric energy and from behind Nocturnal screams out, “Return it to me at once! You _asinine _dragon!”

The feeling that comes over her form is a beautiful one, riveting and strong, peaceful and charismatic, a myriad of melodic emotions rich and overwhelming in joy. Kara laughs and sways. She finds Festus crinkles his nose and scoffs at her, but she doesn’t give a rats ass if he takes her seriously or not. The magic of a Prince, _her _power, returns to her in gleaming bursts of bright red. Her eyes shift and become tinted to their rightful coppery red-brown. Her flesh mends itself from the surplus of magicka returned to her form. She laughs and smiles and spins for a time until the shouts of Princes and roars of a dragon bring her back to the ground.

Two of the Daedric Princes land eyes on her. Kara peers at Nocturnal. “You look a little beat up.”

“Take care of _that_—Get my artifact back!” the Queen of Murk growls and backs away, eyes locked unto Voldusos’ form.

When Kara snaps her head to look at Festus Krex or the second Sahkriimir, she sees neither. Only Sheogorath’s bleeding, groaning form lingers, along with an unconscious Azura and Sanguine’s grievously wounded form. Kara ignores Voldusos a second longer and wills the world not to fall apart and crumble completely before she runs to Sanguine's amorphous remains and dumps magicka into it. She doesn’t know what kind of spells she uses, she just tries to _shove _the magicka into his form. Only a little of the magicka takes and becomes sucked into the body. Kara hisses at Nocturnal and snaps, “—Make sure he stays alive or our deal is off!”

“You wouldn’t go against me—” The Queen of Murk snarls.

Kara’s cold stare is her reply. She turns in time to witness the fall of the walls opposite the double door entrance. Voldusos has torn through them, and the dragon flees through the gap with the single visible Sahkriimir hot on their tail. Kara’s eyes widen and she runs after the Listener. Outside, the world overhead is a wash of glowing white entropy as energy infests the plane of Oblivion and begins breaking down laws of existence. The great white dragon stops at the walls of _New Sheoth_, where they double-around and barrel back into Sahkriimir. The assassin dashes to the side and scales a watchtower while Voldusos blares shouts of fire, of ice, and of winds against the structure. Kara runs forward and shrieks at the dragon, _“Joor zah frul!” _

If there’s a shout that should force a dragon to their knees, it is the shout of Dragonrend. The beast of white cries out and howls in fury at the damning shout. It is the nature of a dragon to comply, outwitted by man and forced to kneel. To Kara’s genuine surprise, Voldusos’ form keels over and bows at the Dragonborn. It is only a second before the shout dissipates, overwhelmed by the magnitude of thu’um devoured by the entropy. Voldusos’ head snaps up and it screeches loud enough to send ringing through Kara’s ears.

The dragon’s tail whips forward and Kara hits the side rolling, thrown from her feet in the impact. Her Daedric magic manifests in a glow of red around her body; it heals the fractured ribs, the internal bleeding, and mends ripped skin. She scrambles to her feet in time to witness two arrows embed into Voldusos’ feet. A third nails the entropy’s left wing, and the creature screams, _“Laas yah nir!” _

The entropy pauses and looks around, examining the watch tower and two surrounding, smaller structures. Kara sees the flash of red and black and she shouts back, _“Strun!” _

Clouds roll into the sky. Her _thu’um_ has been used too much with Dragonrend, the powerful shout causing _strun _to be a call for a light shower rather than a lightning strike. Voldusos’ hesitates and Kara confirms her suspicions: three arrows fly from the left-most structure, what looks to be a blacksmith shop or armory. A Dark Brotherhood member has a bow in its depths and she needs to keep them alive.

_And what in Oblivion is Sahkriimir doing in the watchtower?! _The thought makes Kara hiss. She curses when the dragon’s tail comes snapping at her again. The Dragonborn braces herself and she lets her body loosen, recalling an old tale about human bodies, impacts, and tension being relative to the other. This time the strike sends her into the watchtower’s base, and she opens her eyes to find herself staring up at Sahkriimir’s apathetic gace face, a huge gap in the nearest wall. The latter does not extend a hand, but remarks in a voice cold as ice.

“—You keep… following.”

“No shit—Of course I am! Why wouldn’t I?” Kara struggles to stand. She brushes herself off and flinches at Voldusos’ nearby roar, inaudible words of a shout following. The Dragonborn frowns. “—Last time I saw you—You were _dead! _A corpse! How do you explain that?!”

“…Ah… Yes… I remember now,” the smirk is remarkably cruel, far more than what Kara expects even of someone as much an asshole as Sahkriimir. The latter holds a gleaming, pale blue metal dagger in their left hand. It’s blade is remarkably familiar, and it remains stained with the blue blood of the Prince it claimed in Sithis’ name. “You’re… Kara.”

“…What do you mean I’m Kara? Of course—Of course I’m Kara!” She stammers and reaches for Sahkriimir, but the figure slips out of her reach and dashes up the watchtower. Kara gawks and begins after them, the steps of a nearing dragon far from her mind. “Sahkriimir! Sahkriimir! Wait! Wait!”

At the third level, where the stairs abruptly halt at the roof, Sahkriimir climbs a ladder and pulls themself up. Kara follows, but a screech all too close makes her slip a rung. She narrowly catches herself and crawls unto the roof in time to see Sahkriimir stare up at the face of the white beast. Voldusos’ eyes blaze with an untamable rage.

“…Horror… Devour… Blood… A name I _almost _respect,” Sahkriimir states softly. “You shut out the darkness. But we are not here to… _debate. _The Dread Father bids you welcome to the Void.”

_“Sahkriimir!”_ Kara shouts.

She screams when Voldusos lunges. Sahkriimir sidesteps and leaps unto the entropy’s head before they draw back. The assassin plunges the Blade of Woe into the creature’s maw. Kara hisses with frustration. She doesn’t have a weapon. When Voldusos shudders and crawls backward, she takes a running leap and tackles the creature’s great head. The white light emitting off the being is nigh-blinding. She feels the creature’s head shake and she throws her hands out and grabs hold of a golden mane. The dragon begins to roar and below; she has no eyes on Sahkriimir, but she feels the dragon attempt to shake and thrash the duo off. When Kara feels like she can’t take it anymore, she hears two arrows fly and sees a Daedric arrowhead embed into the dragon’s temple, just a foot short of hitting her flesh.

Voldusos rears back and screeches. Clouds dominate a sky and take shape of glass fragments before meteors start a shower over the Isles and plummet to the ground. Kara yelps when her hand slips from the mane, and she screams when her grasp gives. A _freezing _cold hand clutches her wrist and heaves her up into the safety of a glowing white mane. Kara looks up to see Sahkriimir’s stoic face.

“You seek _death?”_ The Listener snaps.

Kara screams again, unable to reply, as great hands whip the duo further down the dragon’s body, a tumble of head-over-heels and rolling through a thickening mane as Sahkriimir and Kara are forced to descend the dragon’s back. Voldusos’ tail coils and strikes out at the creature’s own body. Kara cries out in pain when it hits her gut. Her Daedric magic provides a stark contrast between white entropy and red Oblivion as her body heals itself. Sahkriimir is already up and cutting, whacking, and slicing through thick scales while the dragon bellows.

“Sahkriimir!” Kara shouts and fumbles to rise. Voldusos bucks and she nearly gets flung off. Another arrow embeds itself into the dragon’s neck and the creature rumbles with a pain and increasing agitation. The atmosphere feels slick and turbulent as Kara stares and watches the world drain of color.

_“Laas… yah.. nir!”_ Voldusos thunders with the power of their thu’um, _“Tiid! Klo! Ul!”_

Time slows and Kara finds herself frozen in place, staring at Sahkriimir’s back as the assassin calmly, _slowly _hacks at the base of the dragon’s neck. Voldusos writhes and moves like normal, and they rear up on hind quarters and throw Sahkriimir and Kara alike from their body. When time resumes, a conjuration sphere pops up silently and Kara’s scream comes to a halt by a frost atronach’s appearance. The summon catches her and she shakes from the cold, but Sahkriimir is not so lucky. The assassin hits the ground without any snap of bones, and rolls and flops to a stop. Kara is stunned to see them rise without pause, though it’s clear they _hurt_ from a limp in their gait.

_“What are you doing?!”_ Festus Krex shouts from the side. The frost atronach drops Kara and dispels. 

“Tell that to your bloody Listener!” Kara screams and staggers to her feet. Sahkriimir’s stare is deadly, but the sound of Voldusos turning around and crawling forward is enough to make both cease any bickering. Sahkriimir runs and throws a hand out in front of Kara; the shorter individual shoves Kara back and stands before the form of their true dragon self. When it’s clear the dragon inhales to _shout_, Kara takes the freezing cold wrist of the Listener and pulls them to the side.

The resistance surprises them as Voldusos’ shout sends a monstrous fireball on the area. “_Yol too shul!”_

“What is wrong with you?” Kara snaps and pulls, but the Listener wrenches their hand free and turns back to the dragon. “Sahkriimir! You can’t defeat them!”

The Listener runs straight for the dragon. Kara utters a profound string of courses and seizes forward. Voldusos’ form is expanding, considerably larger in size than before, and they are far past a recognizable draconic figure opposed to a mass of near-amorphous, nigh-featureless white entropy. The entity bellows and spits out a shout of _fus_. Sahkriimir staggers past it but Kara is caught by the shout's end while the dragon’s tail rises. Voldusos lifts their body up and slams claws, talons, and tail down—On Kara. The Dragonborn flinches backward but it’s too late to jump out of the way; the white hand comes crashing down and with it all the the claws and the talons of entropy.

Except Sahkriimir bears the blunt of the blow; Kara’s luck shines through and she opens her eyes and sees herself on the ground amidst dust and debris. One of the structures on the ground, the same one she saw a Brotherhood archer in before, is catastrophically leveled from the force of the blow. Kara herself sits upright against the edge of a crater, and she struggles to make out further details beyond the mass of white in her face. As Voldusos retreats and looks at the sight, the Dragonborn sees ecto-plasmal remains in a puddle on the ground. Her eyes widen.

_“Dir ko maar, et’Ada,”_ Voldusos addresses the Dragonborn at last._ “Aus ol zu’u aus.”_

“Die in terror, says the dragon!” Sahkriimir’s voice comes from above.

Kara looks up as Voldusos whips its head side-to-side. _“Laas yah nir!” _

“Suffer as I suffer, says the dragon!”

_“Kolos los hi?”_ The entropy hisses.

_Where are you? _Kara shares the thought.

A wall of fire erupts between the entropy and Kara; the dragons rears up on hind legs and steps backward, knocking into the walls of _New Sheoth_. A hand reaches down into the crater and pulls her out by force. Festus Krex shoves her to her feet and casts several spells over her body, all illusion or alteration yet none Kara can recognize beyond the noise-concealing _Muffle_. He clamps a hand over her mouth before she can say anything; the mage points. One of the spells must increase her range of hearing, because the words come clear as day.

_“Laas yah nir! Laas! Laas!” _Voldusos screeches each word out with increasing fervor, louder and louder than before. The mass of entropy wobbles and shakes, a clamor of uncontrollable energy struggling to mitigate their own form before they explode. _“Aan nikriin qah! Krif kopraan!”_

Kara flinches backward. _A coward hides. Fight the body. _

“I came to walk the horizon line, Voldusos,” It rings from above, higher and higher Kara’s eyes climb until she sees the gleam of red-black armor perched on the wall. The figure stands and gold gleams under a torn sky. “—Dragonkind has fallen. The sky bows to the earth. And you have been marked bound for Sithis, a gift to the Void!”

Voldusos rips into the walls of New Sheoth and begins to splurge up. The mass oozes and drips and engulfs brickwork and trickery of the planes’ capital. They bellow their response, _“Hi los sahlo, zu’u nuz ni zu’u! Fin rok rel ko fin golt! Zu’u fen du hi—"_

_I will devour you. _

_“—krii hin vobalaan sil—”_

_Kill your unworthy soul._

_“--daal hi wah tahrovin!”_

_Return you to chaos._

“Tiid bo vod daar tiid, dii viing.”

_Time moves on past this moment, my wings._

"Goodbye, Voldusos."

The person leaps into the mass of white, an incorporeal blob of absence and entropy. Kara doesn’t remember when she starts running, but she rips past Festus Krex and his protest and bolts for the wall with a scream of, _“Mul qah div!” _

The scales that form on her body take the color of a deep sanguine-red, bold and bright, vivid and beautiful, and far from anything they were before. The ethereal armor of Dragon Aspect clings to her form and Kara runs, runs, runs, even when she hears nothing more. She does not run for herself, but for the Listener, for her friend, for the _dov _she once called her own. She runs, and she runs, and she runs, and she pulls herself up when she trips and runs more. The white drops from the wall and _plunges _below. Kara inhales and breaks through the white mist, the energy of entropy seeping through her form and poisoning her soul. She thinks thoughts she knows are not true, words she knows she must not say, but she runs, and she runs, and she runs.

She stops where luck leads her and holds out her arms. A yelp falls from her lips when something crashes into her with far too much force. Only the strength bestowed by her Dragon Aspect shout keeps her arms from being torn off by the impact. The white energy suddenly dissipates and fades, and Kara finds herself looking down at the five-foot-one-on-a-good-day figure with gold hair and big silver eyes. “Kara?”

The Dragonborn balks at words. “—That’s me. Yeah.”

“Please put me down.” The Listener states calmly.

“I need a moment.” Kara mumbles. “Maybe ten. Minutes. Moments.”

“We do not have moments, minutes, time,” the words are put very simply, a bit blunt but far from cold. Kara notes the shorter individual feels quite warm and pleasant to hold. If not for the increasingly embarrassed look on their face, the Dragonborn might have continued on for an hour. When Sahkriimir is put on their feet, they look beyond Kara and shout_, “—The crown!”_

“Working on it,” Festus waves off the remark, turns, and jogs away. A second later the mage disappears under the effects of a potion, or perhaps an invisibility spell; Kara doesn’t know from the distance.

Her hands drop to her sides and she stares at Sahkriimir intensely. “Sahkriimir.”

“Yes?” The Listener frowns.

“How is any of this happening? How are—How did—” Kara pinches the bridge of her nose. “What’s going on? I—I came here to _fight Sheogorath _and—To save you—And—You were—Not you? Didn’t you _die? _Not just—Your body at the Brotherhood—But also—Just then? The hand! Big white talon hand! Voldusos squashed you!”

“Last I checked I remain unsquashed. _Mey, _Kara, you are very strange.” Sahkriimir snorts and shakes their head.

“—And how did you get—_Why is your hair—Your eyes—_And talking like _that? _What is—This? You? What _are _you?” The Dragonborn grabs hold of the Listener’s shoulders and stares. “Why did you ignore me in the tower?! Why did you feel so fucking _cold?_”

_“Lucien Lachance,_” the Listener calls the name of the deceased Speaker and grins in amusement. The specter rises from the ground and greets Kara with the same horrifying smirk he held before. Sahkriimir shoves off Kara’s hands. “—Festus is a magical protégé, _dii dovahkiin. _He knows illusion magic. Nowhere close the level of Gabriella, but I did not have time to wait for her return.”

“You were… an _irritation, _Dragonborn…” Lucien remarks softly, a clear lust for blood in his voice. Sahkriimir dispels the ghost without pause and turns back to Kara.

“…Why are you here?” Kara asks, suddenly feeling a bit more hesitant than before.

The Listener crosses their arms. “Coming here was an asinine idea, Kara. The Prince of Madness effects even a dragon. When Babette told me of your brief conversation—It was imperative I take care of this quickly. I decided to care about you when we woke up in that cart en route to Helgen. You are not very good at keeping out of trouble.”

“—You got yourself kidnapped by Stormcloaks twice, the Brotherhood once, and—” Kara stops herself before the words go any further, putting a cap on her need to bite back at the chiding observation. The Dragonborn frowns. “But that doesn’t—How can you be here? Not here as in the Isles—Here as in—_Alive?_”

“I am still a dragon. I _am _dragon. A dragon who embraces the ground and walks the horizon line between earth and sky,” Sahkriimir tucks a strand of hair behind one ear and nods. “Mercer Frey did not kill me, _dovahkiin. _Lucien Lachance did, on behalf of the Night Mother and Dread Father. I broke a Blood Oath and offered life for forgiveness. And Sithis... forgave.”

The words are now spoken between the two as they walk back to the ruined building that was once a palace for the Prince of Madness. Kara’s Dragon Aspect shout lingers a time longer than usual and she frowns when Sahkriimir discusses the time in the Void. “—I remember hearing you on the way here. But that—It doesn’t line up with the timeline.”

_“Tiid _is far more nuanced than _dov _like to believe.” Sahkriimir huffs. “Perhaps it was the Void’s way of trying to alert you, Kara. Or, perhaps, it was trying to call you back to the Night Mother's embrace. It may not have been me to begin with.”

“You have a lot of you’s. And others pretending to be you.” The Dragonborn rubs her forehead.

“Many people do,” Sahkriimir hums a familiar jester’s tune as the two reach the destroyed building and open-air throne room. They pause and look across at the devastation, then stop at Jyggalag’s limp, soulless body. “A fitting end for the Prince of Order.”

_“Look who we have here—”_ A very _small _amorphous shape gurgles and rolls up in a ball to the duo before unfolding and stretching upright to be eye-level with the short individual. _“—I thought you died!” _

“Dragons are notorious assholes when it comes to death, Sanguine.” The remark is dry, and the amorphous liquid shudders.

“—Sanguine.” Kara’s eyes widen. She scoops up as much of the amorphous blog as her arms allows and clutches him tightly. The relief is enough to make her eyes water. “—Zeus help me, you are _weird _like this. I need you to stop being this by the next time I visit the Myriad Realms.”

“Kara!” It is the voice of someone Kara is both delighted and utterly _annoyed _at seeing again, because the bosmer interrupts her when he runs over. Kara feels Sanguine’s amorphous form slither away, where to is beyond her but she acquires a feeling that the Prince of Hedonism isn’t satisfied engaging in deep conversation in his current form. Niruin looks almost how she remembers him, but in the appropriate shrouded armor that clings to his form.

The Dragonborn snorts. “Here I was, thinking you froze to death. I think Vex thought the same, too.”

“—Oh, is Vex here? What I would _give _to see the look on her face—” Niruin’s smile is full of saunter and mischief. “It is good to see you _alive_, Kara. How goes the rest of the Guild?”

“They’re all dead but me, Vex, and Brynjolf. And you. Everyone’s dead.” It’s a blunt answer for a topic she does not want to think about. Niruin doesn't seem too surprised by the news, which surprises her. Kara frowns. “Do you intend to stay a member of the Dark Brotherhood, Niruin? If you came back—Maybe Brynjolf would consider trying to rebuild it. Otherwise... I don't think Skyrim has a Thieves Guild anymore.”

“Had you asked me _before _earlier today—I would have said nope, nada, zilch, never! But alas, our newest Speaker is insistent on sending me off day-in-and-day-out! It is exciting, yes, but the gold is exhausting to obtain. Perhaps,” the assassin considers it with a smile. “—Perhaps a life of thievery would be more appropriate? I will _consider _it, Kara. By chance, _is _Vex or Brynjolf here? It would be good to say hi to them.”

“Brynjolf.” Kara snaps her head back and forth. “Jehovah, where is Brynjolf?! He was injured—And Cadha—” Her eyes dim. _And Cadha’s… dead. _

“Cadha? His half-sister? Or that weird mage we captured back in Winterhold?” Niruin frowns.

She ignores him and strides beyond the bosmer. Her eyes fall on the crumpled, quashed, bloody and headless corpse of the half-Nord. Cadha’s gloves still hold enchantments, even in death, as do the woman’s boots. Kara’s eyes begin to water again. She looks for the woman’s head, and returns it to her body. In death, the half-Nord almost looks like a puppet. She doesn’t look like she was once human, breathing, _alive. _She doesn’t look _real. _Kara grits her teeth and wipes her eyes; there are still Princes present and now that she is back to being one of them she will _not _show weakness.

Not that much weakness, not here.

When Sanguine’s form oozes to her side and merges into one swaying blob, she stops in her thoughts and looks over. “Do you have any idea what to do?”

_“No._” His voice comes out disembodied, perhaps a permanent trait of his natural form. _“I can’t heal her, Kara. I’m weak._”

“I know that.” She admits quietly. “I don’t… think it would be possible, anyways. Her head’s all… lobbed off.”

_“Jyggalag… more like Jyggala-dick._”

“That’s a terrible joke and a trash of a pun.” The Dragonborn shakes her head. “Can’t I—I don’t know—Can’t I just give her new life? Couldn’t I do that?”

_“Do you know how?_”

“No?” Kara stiffens. “Artemis on high, why can’t Cadha be like Sahkriimir?! Pop up from the dead, or—Something! Something. Something.”

_“Have you asked?”_

“What?”

_“Kara, I love you and all, but can’t you just… ask Sahkriimir to do the same shit they’ve done until now?” _Sanguine’s form jiggles.

“Sahkriimir!” Kara looks over her shoulder and shouts the name. The Listener glances her way from across the throne room, where Niruin and Festus pull a limp Sheogorath up. Next to Sahkriimir, Lucien Lachence stands at the ready with the same Blade of Woe containing Jyggalag’s soul. The weapon must be of some threat to the Daedric Princes present, because Kara notes the closest ones—Azura and Clavicus Vile—each shy away.

Mullokah’s giddy self follows Sahkriimir when the Listener walks over. The child happily holds a very strange staff in one hand, a staff Kara _knows _a child should never possess. She stares in bewilderment at the Listener’s choice and opens her mouth to speak when Sahkriimir cuts her off. “Think through your words carefully. You have a look of someone who wants to say unfortunate words.”

“But he’s—A _kid_—That’s the _Wabbajack!_” Kara snaps and holds her head in her hands. “Why did you bring a kid to the Shivering Isles?!”

“It’s my first contract!” The tiny Dragonborn chirps proudly. Clucky lazily wanders to the group.

“He helped. It makes this contract as much of his as it was of mine.” Sahkriimir states.

“This contract—To kill whom, again?” Kara stares. “Sahkriimir?”

“To cut off my wings and purge them from the sky,” the Listener replies calmly. “I chose to accept who I am now rather than return to the sky, Kara. Voldusos was… The last piece that needed to be dealt with. A being marred by entropy, a set of wings of great heights. But I do not want that; I see it now.”

_So all those words about caring about me and coming here was a load of bull. Great. Nice to see you too, Sahkriimir. Glad you're alive, Sahkriimir. I missed you, Sahkriimir. _Kara's thoughts loop in irritation. She is quiet a moment, focused on calming herself.

“The sky is really nice, but Sahkriimir thinks the view from the ground is also nice, so _I _think the view is nice! It’s nice, right?” Mullokah pauses and rubs his head. He taps the Wabbajack to the ground absentmindedly and a flower begins to bloom through floorboards and tiles. “Oh—Hey! I made something happen!”

“Be careful with that.” Sahkriimir pats the child’s head and huffs. They look at Kara. “What do you need, _dii dovahkiin_? Besides a bath.”

“How to put this… How did you do _anything_ to get here? To… Deal with _that _monstrosity—Voldusos?” The woman lowers her hands to her sides.

Sahkriimir smiles faintly. They reach for a chain around their neck and pull out a key attached at the end. The Skeleton Key gleams faintly, a power emanating from its knob end. “Mercer Frey was kind enough to leave a gift in his passing. Lucien Lachance hid it in the Void until it was necessary. I do not care for it, but it is too powerful an artifact not to use. I intend to return it to the Void until the Brotherhood requires its use once more.”

“—That… It actually needs to go back to Nocturnal,” Kara frowns. “This has no bearing on—_Anything _that just happened—But—Her portal to the Evergloam—It needs the key to function properly. I made a pact, Sahkriimir, I need to give it to her.”

“That will not happen.”

“Glad to know you’re just as stubborn as you were before this nonsense started,” Kara groans loudly and rubs her forehead. “Fine, fine! I’ll just _break my damn pact _with Nocturnal and she can curse your Brotherhood! That’s what happened with the Thieves Guild. You remember that storyline?”

“What’s a storyline?” Mullokah inquires eagerly.

“Hush.” Sahkriimir pats his head. Their eyes dim and they look to the side. “…It will be returned in time, Kara. Not yet. It is leverage over the Queen of Murk. Daedric Princes are precarious creatures. What,” they pause a moment and meet her eyes. “What did you need of me?”

“This is… Cadha.” Kara gestures at the corpse on the ground. She’s not sure if it’s a good or bad thing Sanguine’s amorphous form lingers, but he isn’t one to talk right then.

“Cadha.” Sahkriimir’s brows furrow.

“Brynjolf’s half-sister. And cousin.” Kara hangs her head. “She… kept summoning Sullivan here. I don’t think she knew how helpful it was. Jyggalag would have killed me if Sullivan didn’t intervene. Voldusos killed her. I think.”

She doesn’t know if it is a good thing or bad thing to mention Brynjolf, because for a moment Sahkriimir is quiet and the individual looks around the room. But the Nord is not there.

“Where is he?” Their words betray the fear in their voice, oozing through syllables and soft breaths.

“—Around. He’s okay, I believe.” Kara interjects. “He got hurt—But I left Maven Black-Briar with him. He should be okay. He wasn’t dying—”

“Maven scares me.” Mullokah grimaces and inches closer to his parent. When he sees the opportunity, he hands the Wabbajack to Sahkriimir and scoops Clucky off the ground instead. The chicken’s eyes shut and Clucky begins to coo and snore against the kid’s chest. Mullokah looks at Kara. “Brynjolf will be okay, right? Right? You promised he'd be okay! He'd come back!”

_“I’ll find him._” Sanguine volunteers without waiting for a yes. The blob shifts and lurches in the direction of the double doors with surprising speed, disappearing when his form moves around a corner.

Sahkriimir frowns. “I trust you are not lying to us, _dii dovahkiin. _I… could not handle that without making a mess of myself.”

“If Voldusos found him then they’d have brought his body back with Cadha’s,” the Dragonborn says. “That didn’t happen. Also, full offense, _fuck you _for hurting Brynjolf that way. You know precisely what I’m talking about.”

The color drains from Sahkriimir’s face. They look at Mullokah. “You and Clucky wait with Niruin and Festus until I am done here. Do not touch the half-dead Daedric Prince.”

“Do I _have _to?” The boy pouts, but at Sahkriimir’s sharp gaze he sighs and drags himself back to the rest of the Brotherhood.

“I deserve those words,” Sahkriimir states quietly. “But save them for after, Kara. Let us talk about Cadha. What are you hoping I accomplish? I am not a necromancer.”

“—But you have the _Skeleton Key._ That’s—Perhaps the most powerful Daedric Artifact in existence.” Kara crosses her arms. She sighs. “Can’t you… I don’t know. Unlock Cadha’s potential to not be a gross, mutilated corpse?”

“—That’s—It’s a stretch, _dii dovahkiin. _I do not know what the Skeleton Key can do until I do things with it.” Sahkriimir frowns. “I have been very _lucky _until now. The Key opened a path to the Isles. It opened potential to shield me from _laas yah nir_ when Voldusos shouted. It unlocked and returned the power Sheogorath stole from you. But a dead body is… not the same.”

“The path to the Shivering Isles—You say it opened that, right? Can’t you try with Cadha’s remains? She’s… not _alive, _obviously, but neither is—I don’t know, a path to the Shivering Isles? C’mon, Sahkriimir—I’m not asking you to do it for me! I’m asking you to do it for _Brynjolf._ And Miraak. I am a little worried he might revert back to his homicidal tendencies if he learns his kind-of-wife is dead.” Kara pinches the bridge of her nose. "Don't ask how we got to this point, it's a long story."

“Lucien!” Sahkriimir barks at the ghost. The dead Speaker nods in acknowledgement, to which the Listener continues. “Carry this corpse and her head. I need it transported to the Crystal Lattice.”

“What? Why can’t you do it _here?_” Kara stares. “And why are you going to _Jyggalag’s plane of Oblivion?!”_

“—If it can raise the dead—It is not knowledge I want these Princes aware of.” Sahkriimir’s response is sharp and final. “The Dark Brotherhood needs a place to keep Sheogorath isolated until time comes for his end. Festus confirmed an invasive hallucinogenic plant called _Oblivion’s Mist_ has begun growing in the Falkreath Sanctuary. He would rather rid of the place than spend time cleansing it. What better place to claim as a new sanctuary than a plane of Oblivion? The Void between Oblivion and Mundus is the ultimate Black Door, the safest refuge for the Brotherhood.”

“It’s the Prince of Order’s plane!” Kara blurts out.

Sahkriimir shrugs. “My _former_ Lord is stuck in a knife in the hands of the Dark Brotherhood’s loyal specter. Pity him, for I see only opportunity here. You are free to tag along to the Crystal Lattice. Or… I will send you notice when Sheogorath is to be dealt with. But the et’Ada must be moved to a place I can contain him. He will face punishment for the actions taken in meddling with Time.”

“Forget him! I am not leaving Vex—Or—Or Miraak—Or his dragons—They are too dangerous to be left alone. Behind. Either or.” Kara crosses her arms.

“Extend the invitation to them. The Dark Brotherhood gathers in Falkreath to begin the move and inform purveyors of existing contracts. After all of this,” they exhale slowly and shake their head. “I want a new place to call home… Somewhere on the ground.”


	47. not at the table (smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tables are meant for sitting and eating. and other things, on occasion.

The Crystal Lattice is a pristine and perfect realm. Every aspect of the central keep is quality, all the constructs oblige without hesitation, and when Sahkriimir opens doorways in the Crystal Lattice plane to allow entry in and out of the Void, it falters from its monochromatic scheme and begins to take on a beautiful obsidian tone and red tint. Seeing the color spring to life among shades of gray gives them a satisfaction they weren’t aware they needed. That, coupled with the days it takes to move the entire Brotherhood and their junk into what was formerly the Lord of Order’s castle, provides a very-welcome catharsis for the thoughts spinning in Sahkriimir’s head.

Voldusos no longer _exists_. Jyggalag is trapped and bound in a Blade of Woe, one kept in the hands of the Dark Brotherhood's former Speaker. And Sheogorath… _their _prisoner. The sheer contrast between their life when they woke up in the cycle of punishment, to now as Listener of the Dark Brotherhood and a bearer of authority equal to the Speaker, it is almost too much to believe. They spend nights wide-awake on flat cots, debating if it is all a glimpse of hope at the future opposed to a reality. They pinch their skin on occasion and wait to snap out of a dream at any second, like the world will fold in on itself and Sheogorath or Jyggalag or even _Voldusos _will make their presence known. They occasionally spend entire nights staring at a picture-perfect ceiling, one where their thoughts are able to blend into the relief and shock and surprise that overwhelms them to the point of tears.

They can’t express in words all the feelings that crush them. The world is vastly different, now, and far from the initial one they woke up in. They have an actual _purpose. _They have people to _care about. _They have _friends. _They have the ground, and the ground has many, many wonderful things they want to hold unto and learn more of. And then there is Brynjolf, and the name alone causes all the wonderful thoughts to go on hold while they struggle to figure out how to approach him.

Since the Shivering Isles, they have not talked to the man. It is not intentional; they don’t go out of their way to avoid him, they simply… don’t _look _for him, either. Part of it is the shame on their shoulders, the guilt in their eyes, and the fear of losing him: the most likely outcome. It doesn’t help when Mullokah is constantly going on and on about how happy he is that Brynjolf and Kara are both hanging out in the _giant new castle_ like best friends and family. Their son is an eccentric, eager boy who shows optimism for the future and sees the best of a situation; they do not have the heart to tell him Brynjolf and them are not likely to continue as a _partnership. _

_It is… adult business. Anyways. He doesn’t need to know right now. _Sahkriimir tries to justify the means but it doesn’t change the fact they keep information from the kid. They feel guilty about it, and about many other things.

It helps there are often things to deal with. The entire day after the Dark Brotherhood successfully transfers equipment and belongings to the Crystal Lattice, Sahkriimir locks themself in their room—a nice change from Falkreath—and experiments with the Skeleton Key on Cadha’s skull. They regret it for days after, because the nauseating smell that permeates the decomposing flesh is far from tolerable. It takes many stabbings of the key into Cadha’s rotting flesh, but over time Sahkriimir discerns something astonishing: it _is _possible to force potential of the dead.

First, they unlock the potential for the body to stop the process of decomposition. They do it for both the body and the skull. Next, they unlock potential for the body to breathe on its own like a headless chicken. When the heart starts beating and spewing blood, Sahkriimir hastily shoves the skull against it and unlocks potential between skull and body for flesh to mend. They repeat the process multiple times until it feels like the skull isn’t just a rotting head of a dead conjurer but physically attached to the torso in nerves, blood vessels, and muscle. It takes another day to get the half-Nord’s damn spirit to stay _in _the body, but when the body finally takes the soul and breathes with life, Sahkriimir flops on their cot in weary relief.

On the third floor of the castle the week after, Sahkriimir sits next to Kara at a round glass-like table while the latter declares, “—You know! I think Miraak was about to cry. I couldn't tell, because he was wearing his mask, but I think he would have if it were in private. I _don’t _know how I feel about that, frankly.”

“I do not need to know the former Champion’s emotional difficulties, _dovahkiin_.” Sahkriimir scoops a spoonful of stew—venison, but they try to eat the vegetables this time—and shoves it in their mouth.

“I think Kara’s _trying _to say thank you for the hilarious opportunity.” From the side comes the voice of the white-haired Imperial woman. Sahkriimir has zero clue how she and Kara can tolerate each other, but they opt not to dwell on it.

“I know how to say thank you, Vex.” Kara snorts. “I was just trying to tell them what I thought of it! My _appreciation._”

“What if you show me your appreciation?” the thief raises a brow at the gray flush on Kara’s face.

“—Not at the table.” Sahkriimir states curtly. They finish their soup quickly while the ladies continue chatting away about the departure of Hermaeus' former champion. They shove their chair back and carry bowl and spoon alike to a box in the corner of the room. It’s an idea they had from Brynjolf’s room in Riften, where one uses boxes to sort dirty dishware and clothes. Sahkriimir pauses at the realization they see the box of bowls is full. They scoop it in their arms and nod. _It’s a short walk to the kitchen downstairs. Nazir should appreciate me running these to him. _

They turn around in time for the door to the room to open. A gleeful chatter of a happy youth and his other parent comes through. The conversation at the table between Kara and Vex halt; Sahkriimir freezes in place and stares first at Mullokah, then at the ginger-haired man who accompanies him.

They drop the box of dishes and it clangs to the floor. Eyes in the room shift to them and they find Brynjolf’s gaze to be one of them. It feels like a lifetime has passed since they had a good look at the Nord, and they’re astonished by how long his hair has grown. He hasn’t cut it; it’s kept tied back at the base of his neck, in a fashion very similar to the day they first crossed paths. He’s recently shaved; the Nord has a bit of stubble and the beginnings of a mustache and beard, but nothing too long or prominent. His eyes are deeper, more experienced, and carry a tremendous weight. He has a walking stick, a pseudo crutch or cane of sorts, he leans against for balance. They can see where his left leg ends at the knee, his breeches hanging loosely around a rudimentary prosthetic.

_You got hurt trying to help me. _Sahkriimir's eyes dim.

They don’t register a word anyone says when the Nord walks over, picks up the box of dishes, and holds it out. They take it, but his hands brush theirs and for a moment Sahkriimir can’t hear their own heartbeat.

“Lassie.” Brynjolf remarks.

“—So, Vex, we should really… go do that thing,” Kara clears her throat and stands. She jabs Vex’s shoulders and the Imperial nods in agreement.

“Yeah, _that_ thing. Small child! Come join us.” Vex snaps at the young Dragonborn. Kara takes her hand and pulls Vex to the door. Mullokah protests at first, but the promise of the _thing _involving Clucky and a game of fetch is enough to appease the boy. It’s frustrating to no end and part of Sahkriimir wants to rip out hair and scream at Kara and Vex over the two having the audacity to do this when they both _know _how messy things are.

Brynjolf is the first to break the silence. He leans against the table and crosses his arms. His walking stick leans against the table with him. “...Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

Sahkriimir’s mouth hangs open. There’s too much to mention, too much to say, and too much to apologize for. They look down at the box of dishes and state, “I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy for your mate?” The sentence makes them turn away. They walk to a corner of the room—really, all it needs to be is somewhere far away from him, where their own problems can’t affect Brynjolf—and put the dishes there. It doesn’t matter how absurd it looks, or how Nazir might complain again about being the only person to give a shit about dishes. What matters is space. That’s what Brynjolf deserves. Space from them, and all the ways they’ve fucked up.

“That’s… That’s not it. I'm not..." It's hard to find words. They grit their teeth. "I don't know how to express how candidly I _fucked up, _Brynjolf."

When they turn around, he’s at the same spot as before. He doesn’t chase after them, but he waits. Brynjolf clears his throat. “That's why we need to talk.”

“I know,” they avert their gaze. They didn’t want to address it, knowing where it leads, but it was inevitable. Sahkriimir returns to the wall opposite Brynjolf. They stand stiffly, gaze on the floor. “This is about Cicero.”

“Yeah.”

“And us kissing.”

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry.”

The Nord sighs and rubs his forehead. “I don’t know where to start on it. Honestly. It was real shitty to hear you went and made out with a jester right after I found out you were _dead._”

_Cicero told him. _The words sting. Sahkriimir doesn’t ignore it; they exhale softly and wring their wrists. But they say nothing; their purpose is to listen, both in the Dark Brotherhood and right now. The Listener shuts their eyes and focuses on their breathing. _Calm. Calm. Calm. Not overwhelmed. _

“I think if… if it had been any other time, maybe I would’ve left. Just… Gone.” Brynjolf sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve spent all the nights I’ve been here debating if I _should _go. Leave this behind. It worries me if this'd be a common thing, lassie, if I'd keep coming back to this precipice. Wonderin' if I should leave and just...”

_Leave you behind. _The unspoken message sings through.

“The thing is... I would regret it, if I left." Brynjolf’s voice dips away from the frustrated, conflicted tone. It melts into a much softer one; it’s been a long time since Sahkriimir has heard him speak like that, or speak at all, and it catches their full attention.

_It’s been… weeks. Over a month… Since… _They look up, and find he’s watching them. Their face flushes deeply from intensity alone. He could cut them down in a second and they would be satisfied on the way out, lost in a brewing storm of fluctuating emotions and a deep desperation that seeps through the man’s brown eyes.

“You don’t have to stay,” they can hardly think. Each word is a new obstacle, one they don’t fully understand. “—Brynjolf.”

“I want to.” Brynjolf states. “I don’t think you… understand, Sahkriimir,” he strides to them before they can think to interrupt, just as quick with his stick as he was with two legs in the past. A hand rests on their shoulder and the touch alone drives heat through their chest. Brynjolf peers into their silver eyes, looking and searching for something. He must find it, because his eyes soften and he whispers. “—I think I’ve… fallen for you. And it’s… it’s giving me a headache, now. Because you’re so _close_ to me—And you—You’re right _here. Talos, _lassie, I don’t think a jester kissin’ you is enough to change that when all I want—”

He kisses them before the sentence finishes, and it’s the most wonderful thing in the world. Their breath catches in their throat and they grab his shirt collar and pull him closer; he grunts and caresses their face with a touch in desperate, desperate need to connect. Everything about him is too perfect, from his smell, his taste, his touch.

“—is you.” He breathes the words against their lips and they lose track of everything and anyone else in the castle, the plane, in all of Oblivion itself.

Gods, they do not deserve him. They do not deserve the man or the fire inside him. They are a sinner and he is a sin and they have no qualms taking as much as he wants to give. Their hands drape around his body as he pushes them against the wall, seeking out every single bit of their attention and thoughts. It’s almost as unbearable as the atmosphere, because they do not want to _seek _oppose to _other things _and the room feels so hot they might as well be set on fire. Too many layers on him, on them, on the two as a whole, and this time there is no hesitation and teasing between one and another as Sahkriimir rips the man’s shirt off and throws it to the side. Their hands claw up and down his chest and back. Brynjolf hisses and grabs their shrouded chest piece. They hold their arms up and it comes off like a dream. The man draws back far enough to admire their chest, held back in a brassiere.

“We didn’t—Get much farther—Last time.” He finally pants. His face is flushed, and his eyes are hungry for every inch of bare skin they show. Sahkriimir makes a point of unclasping the brassiere and letting it drop to the ground, daring him to go on. Brynjolf smiles and lowers himself to take in the sweet, soft mounds.

His breath along against their skin is divine, but the feelings that run through their body when he takes a breast in mouth and begins to worship it is too much for them to hold in. They grab at his hair and moan loudly while the man rubs and squeezes their free one. When he’s had enough of one he switches to the other, continuing for minutes and driving them more and more into a frenzy until they rip him up and steal his lips again. He presses against them and groans in want. He is usually a patient man, but they can see how their body effects him and how it is wearing him down. When they make for the waistband of his pants, he hisses and bucks his hips into their palm. Sahkriimir dips beneath the clothes and slowly pulls them down, until every inch of Brynjolf is right in front of them.

They hear his sharp intake when they drop to their knees. His breathing is shallow. When they take him in their mouth and begin to suck, he growls and shoves his palms into the wall, gripping it and hissing louder and louder as their tongue swirls around the tip. He begins to thrust into their mouth, and they hold off on gagging as much as they can. Their hands rise and stroke the shaft while their head bobs on and off. Brynjolf’s pants become louder and more prominent; he suddenly pulls back and exhales. “Not—Not right away. By Mara. Your lips are a menace.”

He helps them to their feet and they peer at him with surprise. It makes him laugh and smile and kiss away any confusion they had. When the moment becomes deep and prolonged, with their body pressing viciously against his, Brynjolf practically scoops them up in his arms and walks to the table, the steps a bit slower and more careful than expected, they can only assume he hasn’t adjusted to the prosthetic yet. Their back meets the cold surface of the glassy crystal and they gasp in surprise when the man grabs at their breasts. He massages them vigorously, and he takes care in pressing kisses to every inch of their torso. Then his hands slip down, and he wriggles the shrouded leggings off their form.

“Sahkriimir,” Brynjolf breathes their name. “Sahkriimir—Look at me. I want to see all of you.”

He’s too handsome not to ogle. They stare at him while he parts their legs with a hand and traces a line down their navel with his finger. It drifts over their clit and dips deeper, where he sighs in satisfaction at the moisture present. Sahkriimir begins to pant and they press their hips against his hand when the finger pushes inside. The breaths turn into sharp, greedy cries; Brynjolf thrusts the digit in and out of their body for a time, lost on their growing arousal.

“I thought about it, lassie,” the man whispers softly. He pulls the finger out and they gasp at him with surprise. His hand moves to their clit and he gently rubs it. “I think… I forgive you. Gods, I _know _I do. But… I think letting Cicero kiss you—It was very…” His finger returns to skipping inside them and they writhe against his hand. The grin on his face becomes wicked, “...naughty.”

A second finger worms inside and the man slows his pace to a crawl, eyes locked on their breathless form.

“Brynjolf—” Sahkriimir coughs and pants. They try and buck their hips but he keeps them still.

“What should I do to you, Sahkriimir?” His eyes hold a devilish gleam and he begins to withdraw his fingers, “—Should I stop?”

“—Don’t you—_Dare_—” They curse profoundly in the _dov_ tongue when his fingers curl inside and brush a sweet spot in them. They understand what he wants to hear and it fills them with as much of a deep need to copulate as it does an embarrassing glow of red on their cheeks. Brynjolf’s light laugh at their face is enough to make them grumble. “You are _terrible_.”

“I am,” He leans down and kisses their chest, fingers maintaining a steady pace in them. They sigh happily against him while he adds, “But I want to hear it. Tell me what I should do with you.”

“You should punish me,” Sahkriimir breaths. “Punish me with your—Your—”

“More specific than that, lassie.” His smug grin grows. Their entire face burns with heat.

When his free hand returns to their clit, with his other hand pumping away, they begin to gasp and plead in desperation, “Please—Please—Brynjolf—I need it—I need _you—_Inside me—Take me—Fuck me until I can’t stand—Until I can’t walk—”

“With my what?” The man’s breath hitches. He soaks in each word, waiting and wanting and watching. “What do you need inside of you, Sahkriimir?”

“Your… Your…” Their hips buck against his hands.

“Say it...”  
  
“Your _penis!_ Cock! Shaft! Dick! You stubborn _mey_—I want to fuck you! Is that _specific enough?_” Their face flushes pink and Brynjolf laughs. It’s a beautiful sound.

The Nord’s hand fondly strokes them and they return to a mess of arousal in seconds. He leans down and presses kisses against their lips, mumbling all the while, “I need you.”

“Then take me, you _mey,_” they cradle his face and kiss him as long as oxygen allows. The Nord draws back only to spread their legs and move forward. Sahkriimir’s back arches as Brynjolf penetrates them. The man growls and hisses at the warmth while he fills them. They take deep breaths; they knew his size from before but to experience it is wholly different. Their legs come up to wrap around his hips and he smiles and kisses them again before he begins to thrust.

Every inch of the man that enters and leaves is one that has them yowling his name in euphoria. Brynjolf groans and gyrates his hips until the table shakes from the movement and threatens to clatter. Chairs get shoved aside in the mess as Sahkriimir attempts to gyrate their hips back. Every second of him inside is one they could marry; they grab at his hair and his head and exhale his name with greed. Gods, they might never get off him, they might never let him go, the two might be trapped like that for all Oblivion and they wouldn’t give two shits because he’s _Brynjolf _and they’ve missed him so much.

They tell him how much in every cry of his name, every syllable that gets stolen in sharp songs of pleasure. When he tires of one position, they sit him down and ride him past the sensation of their thighs burning to rest. When he suddenly grabs hold of their hips and pulls them unto him, the man’s breathing hitches and he climaxes with hands clinging to their skin and kisses on their lips. When he becomes limp inside, they pant from remaining arousal and make to get off but Brynjolf takes their hands and coaxes them to stay. His eyes lock on theirs. “Sahkriimir.”

“Brynjolf.” They whisper.

One hand goes to a breast and begins to massage it. They groan against him. The Nord pauses. “...You didn't finish?”

“I don’t—I don't... always do.” They state between breaths. “You don’t have to—” Their words transform into a gasp when his other hand dips back to their clit and begins to rub it vigorously. Their body heats up and they squirm and struggle to grind on and against him, slipping off his shaft in the process. Their moans increase in volume, but the man is firm and he takes time rubbing their clit between two fingers until the pressure in their abdomen overwhelms them and they orgasm in a mess of cries and the arch of their back. Brynjolf pulls them against him and kisses them again.

He looks down at their flush face. Their bodies contain a glean of sweat, much like what Sahkriimir once saw in a dream. His eyes suddenly dim. “I wish I had taken you with me.”

“What?” It’s not the words they thought he might say. Their eyes peer at him while he caresses their face and leans down to kiss them. They kiss him back, hopelessly enamored by the man.

“—I wanted to take care of Mercer. And keep him away from you. Keep you safe...” the Nord mumbles against their lips.

“He’s dead now,” Sahkriimir asserts. “And we’re… _here. _Right now.”

“Together?” Brynjolf pauses.

“—If you want to be.” Their smile is soft and shy. He grins and kisses them until they are grinning too. Brynjolf hefts them up and lays them against the table. For a moment they stare at him, perplexed, but they feel the bump of his erection against their thigh and they part their legs for him to push into.

“Oh, oh, _lassie,_” the Nord hums in pleasure. He smiles at their tussled hair and breathless anticipation. “I don’t think Aetherius could tempt me away—Not when—_Talos,”_ his hips begin to rock into theirs again and he sighs wistfully. “Not when—I’m in love with—You.”

Their muscles clamp around on him and he curses under his breath. Sahkriimir pants and rocks their hips into his which each thrust. The pressure is back where it begins and Brynjolf is so filling and strong and good and beautiful they can’t help but build the coil in each thrust, each depth of connection, each kiss he offers and they take. His hands leave their breasts aching for more and he nips at their cheeks and jawline while always avoiding their neck. The table begins to shake loudly and Sahkriimir feels the man tense as his release draws near. They arch their back and grab hold of him to pull him in more, but his hands come to theirs and instead of yanking or tugging, he grabs their hands in his and laces the fingers together. He squeezes their hands and Sahkriimir cries out at another climax rushing through their body. A few more pumps and Brynjolf does the same; the man doubles over and comes in their body. It is hot and leaves them a mess of awe and feelings.

“I’m not… a _young stud _anymore.” Brynjolf confesses between wheezes. “But that—That was something else, eh?”

“You’re something else.” They huff at him and smile at the flush that follows. “We should’ve done this in a bedchamber.”

“Give me some time to recover an’ we can get there,” the man plops out of them. He pulls them close and kisses them deeply.

They like his kisses. They like all of him. Enough that they can’t help but let the words slip out, as soft and vulnerable as they try not to be.

“—I love you. Brynjolf."

For a moment neither says anything. Brynjolf stares at them in shock and they stare at him in shock at their own words. The man swallows and, after a minute passes, states. “We should move this to a bedroom now.”

“Right now?”

“Maybe not,” the man’s erection jabs their thigh. They open their legs and cry out from the sensitivity as he pushes inside. He leans over them, hands on both sides of their body while their toes curl and they moan. Brynjolf’s lips find theirs and he breathes. “They don’t need to sit and eat, do they? Everyone—Everyone else—"

“Sithis help them if they do,” They grab his face and kiss him. When he begins to thrust, they hold unto him and sing his name. By the time he gets through with them, they’re a quivering, sweaty mess of euphoria barely able to stand, and Sahkriimir couldn’t be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we did it guys  
it only took FORTY SEVEN CHAPTERS  
BUT WE GOT TO THE BRYNJOLF SMUT  
cue confetti
> 
> officially 2 chapters left of the actual story, and 3 separate epilogues  
thank u for reading have a nice day


	48. the obsidian end (smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara gets up to a few things while she and others wait for judgement to be passed unto sheogorath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one chapter left and then the epilogues!!  
a warning for talk about infertility and pregnancy when  
kara and sahkriimir are discussing the fact almost all the dragons are dead  
it specifically begins at the line:  
"Three dragons and then... Me, you, Mullokah, Miraak."  
to skip it ya'll can c+f the following:  
The Dragonborn steps out on a limb  
^^^^^^^ that  
TY FOR READING

The realm feels perfect. Everything about the Crystal Lattice _is _perfect, given the Lord of Order’s meticulous building of it, but Kara doesn’t care to ask Sanguine too many questions on the ins and outs of the plane of Oblivion in the short time before she, Vex, and Brynjolf accompany the Dark Brotherhood to the plane. The nature of it all feels nothing short of mind-boggling; none of it _should _be possible, but Sahkriimir’s Skeleton Key knows no limits and Kara sees it firsthand when the former opens a gate of darkness for the group.

It’s bizarre to see the effect of the Void being opened and seeping into the plane of Oblivion. Kara sees it when she steps out of the gate to the Lattice, where the ground suddenly shifts from Mundus’ melting snow and slush to sleek, crisp obsidian. In the distance, pockets of monochromatic hues linger in addition to the familiar crystalline structures of Prince Jyggalag’s design, but it is nothing compared to the wash of dark colors and mess of obsidian climbing _everywhere. _

The castle of the plane—affectionately dubbed the _Obsidian End _by the Dark Brotherhood—has three keeps to it, connecting in a roundabout manner at the base, a multi-level structure complete with one grandiose quarter, a former throne room, dining hall, and armory. Sahkriimir and the Brotherhood has already begun the process of converting the rooms to fit their needs. The heirs of Sithis spare no expense outfitting the chambers; cots are brought in, chests filled with ingredients, and Kara even catches sight of a kitchen being outfitted specifically for the resident chef. It doesn’t pass her attention that the Brotherhood has already launched into a process to start recruiting new members; familiar yet old faces of individuals like Leorn Stillshine, a deserter of the Stormcloak army, and Alysoin, a dark-haired vampire, pop up over the weeks of her stay.

Sahkriimir even has the decency to give her a private room.

“I plan to redo the walls, but for now it will suffice for _dii dovahkiin._” The Listener crosses their arms and nods.

“You’re taking this a bit seriously,” is all the Dragonborn can think, at a loss of words for anything she’s witnessed in the plane so far. “I cannot believe you stole an entire plane of existence.”

“Sithis’ heirs need a place of refuge until the Dread Father calls us home,” is the response, and it’s spoken so seriously Kara has half a mind to stare and half a mind to laugh. She opts not to do either and thanks the Listener for the accommodations.

Everything flows seamlessly together. Without any Daedric Princes or dragons of entropy to worry about, the world trudges on. It feels peaceful. Kara falls into the lull of tranquility. She takes long naps, enjoys every nook and cranny Vex has, and melds into the company of the Dark Brotherhood effortlessly. Though she no longer holds loyalty to Sithis, she maintains respect for the Dread Father and Night Mother alike, and Kara still retains an interest in the different members of the Brotherhood, notably a Saxhleel of dark green scales and vivid yellow eyes.

The two bump into each other more than once on accident. The first few times, it is when Veezara is tasked with training the new initiates of the Brotherhood, or helping transport crates and chests from one floor of the castle to another. There isn’t time for talking _then_, and part of it wears on Kara, because even in this universe she is not one to forget _him._

She’s equal-parts surprised and equal-parts relieved that a evening comes where she _does _run into the Saxhleel. It’s early evening and the red sky of the Crystal Lattice has yet to darken. Kara finds herself called to the inner courtyard of the castle, just in time to witness a familiar dragon—a rather small one, she forgot if it was Krusolhah or not—deposit a bag of correspondences on the ground. The Saxhleel is in the process of watching the dragon take off and soar into the distance, presumably to an Oblivion Gate kept safe in the sky. When Veezara turns, Kara offers a wave and strides up to the man.

“Dragonborn.” The Shadowscale is polite and calm, but Kara knows his eyes hold secrets.

She smiles. “Yeah, that’s me. Hey. You need help with those?”

“No,” Veezara lifts up the satchel of letters and looks to the doors of the castle. “I’ve carried heavier in my time. These are… light. Manageable.”

“Are those the ones from your Brotherhood’s active agents, or just the ones from Mister Solsheim?” Kara crosses her arms and lifts a brow at the Shadowscale’s hesitation. “Nevermind, you don’t have to answer.”

“If the Listener says you can be trusted, then I do not suspect you, Dragonborn.” Veezara pauses. “I believe this bag is… strictly related to _Miraak._”

“Figures those two assholes keep in touch,” Kara taps a foot and huffs. Of course, the last duo she ever saw becoming buddies and pals was Miraak and Sahkriimir. But in retrospect, a part of it makes sense: the two share a unique perspective, one of their soul’s imprisonment and existence as servants to powerful Daedric Princes. Kara exhales sharply and nods. “Well, better the two get along than not. I hope Cadha sent something to Brynjolf; I don’t think he was present to say goodbye before Miraak dipped…”

_“Dipped.” _Veezara squints at the Dragonborn.

“Yes—It’s—Oh, a dunmer thing, sure, let’s call it that.” Kara shakes her head. “It’s something I say, Veezara. One of my quirks.”

“…You have a lot of quirks, Dragonborn.” The assassin gazes at her. For a moment, Kara catches the gleam of something else, something almost _familiar. _But it isn’t familiar, it isn’t the same, and she finds her heart drops in her chest at the familiar ache of loss.

The Dragonborn averts her gaze. “I know.”

“I meant to ask you something, a time before all of this, back in Riften.” The Saxhleel clears his throat. He glances at her. “…You… knew my name. When we met. You knew my fighting style. According to the late Second Listener, you… May have known a Shadowscale training technique as well.”

Kara pauses. Her eyes dim, though it is with a bittersweet mood. She manages a quaint smile and smooths her leather armor over her tunic as she answers. “It’s all true, Veezara. You aren’t wrong.”

The Shadowscale’s eyes widen a second. It’s brief, but Kara was once an attentive Listener. She understands brief expressions.

“How?” Veezara squints at her. “That… How can it be? There are none left of the Shadowscale Order.”

“Well,” the Dragonborn’s smile becomes more livelier and more amused. She lets herself breathe in the feelings, a welcome change to the sorrow of the past universe. “A… long time ago… In another life, really, if one can say it as such, I met someone just like you. A,” she shuts her eyes and relaxes at the memories, sweeter than honey. “…handsome, calm, level-headed individual. A Saxhleel… A Shadowscale. The last of his kind. He was observant. Told me not to be distracted before contracts, because distractions _kill_.”

The Shadowscale waits for her to go on. When she opens her eyes, she finds he listens closely to her words, entranced by each syllable.

“I wound up falling for him. He was… always there when I needed him. A dangerous combatant to face, but gentle as can be for those he cherished,” the Dragonborn wipes her eyes. She hadn’t realized how watery they had gotten, but she’s grateful for the opportunity to express some of the feelings that have long-since welled up inside. “He helped me grow past my fears. He was wonderful, he was. I think if things had gone on the way they had, I would’ve told him I…” She trails off.

The Dragonborn clears her throat.

“I loved him.” Kara states, refusing to shy from the words. “I still do. Part of me may always love him and what we had. Everything I learned of Shadowscales, I learned from him.”

Veezara looks to the side. “…if you do not mind me asking—What happened to him?”

“’He forgot me,’ would be the easiest explanation,” Kara answers, though at Veezara’s silence she continues. “—He… Was taken from me, in a way. The Prince of Madness reversed the universe. Reverted it to before we met. And that was right after he _killed me,_ but Sheogorath’s assholery is a topic for another day,” the Dragonborn snorts. “I hope that clears up any confusion.”

“…What did he call himself?” It’s a dangerous question to ask, and part of Kara wants to commend him for approaching the unspoken possibility head-on.

She smiles faintly. “The Last Shadowscale.”

“Me?” Veezara returns his gaze to her.

Kara sighs and shrugs. “Well, you know. There aren’t any other Shadowscale left. Veezara. So. Yeah. Yeah, it was you. We… once had something together. That Veezara and myself. But now… Now you’re you, and I’m me, and we aren’t exactly the past universe. Are we?”

“No.” The Shadowscale looks genuinely pained to say the words. Kara maintains her smile. Veezara grits his teeth and shakes his head, an unusual display for the composed individual. “No, we aren’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t do anything,” the Dragonborn puts a hand on his shoulder. Kara’s eyes soften and she looks to the side. “I’m happy you didn’t die in this universe, Veezara. I hope you can find happiness here, and a place to rebuild your Order.”

“Thank you, Dragonborn.” Veezara says quietly.

“Hey, don’t go getting mopey on me now. Chin up, I mean it.” Kara huffs. She leans forward and presses a kiss to the assassin’s cheek. It isn’t for the same reason, but the faint blush among the man’s scales are enough to make her smile. She draws back and turns. “Thanks for not killing me in the mountain pass. I know you used your antidote on me.”

Kara doesn’t linger to engage him further. Part of her is very sad, the realization that the past is the past finally becoming clear and in front of her now. But part of the Dragonborn feels closure. The story between herself and the Last Shadowscale is done. Veezara of this universe is not the Veezara of the past, and she accepts that, and wishes him well. She holds herself together on the way back to her room, just barely able to get inside before she sits on her cot and silently cries at the thought things are actually over. Not just with Veezara, but with the madness of Sheogorath. The Dark Brotherhood will handle the Prince and she can enjoy the universe as it is now, with Vex and Sanguine and all the individuals she’s met on the way.

The notice for summons is pushed under Kara’s door weeks later. She’s almost forgotten the matter entirely, until her eyes catch sight of the faded parchment when she rises from a nap one afternoon. She hears Vex stir on the duo’s new bed behind her, but Kara tries to be quiet when she strides to the door and picks up the notice. She frowns and eyes the paper, “…A Feast of Princes. I should ask Sanguine about it.”

“Kara?” The imperial thief calls from the two’s bed.

“It’s just—It’s a notice, Vex. From Sahkriimir,” the Dragonborn purses her lips. “The Dark Brotherhood’s finally decided to reign judgement on Sheogorath. The Princes will gather and decide his fate.”

“’Bout time.” The white-haired woman huffs and flops back into the bed. When Kara looks back, her eyes soften at the thief’s attempts to hide under covers and a blanket. “What?”

“You look… just. Cute.” Kara grins sheepishly. “You’re something sometimes, Vex. And right now that something is _cute.”_

The blush on Vex’s face gives the Dragonborn a sense of mirth. She smiles fondly at the woman and returns to the bed. She can’t resist getting tangled in the covers, eagerly worming underneath to join her lover with a grin. The thief huffs at how long it takes and pulls Kara into a kiss when she’s within reach. Vex plucks the summons from Kara’s hand and gives it a glance. The white-haired woman scoffs and crumples it into a ball. She eyes Kara with impish eyes and throws the paper to the side. “—Yeah, you don’t need to spend time focusing on that.”

“Oh, really?” Kara raises a brow. “And what _should _I be focusing on?”

The Dragonborn grins cheekily when Vex huffs and climbs atop the woman. Vex leans down and kisses her, “—Why you went and put clothes _back _on is fucking ludicrous, Kara.”

“What? You afraid you can’t get them off again?” Kara begins to laugh but the thief’s lips silence her, until the latter’s hands begin to wander. At that point the humor in the moment dies and becomes a sudden surge of need for intimacy and connection. Kara sighs softly when Vex’s hands roam her torso beneath her shirt.

The woman tugs on the Dragonborn’ blouse and gently pulls it off. “I _know _I can get them off! Just like I know I can get _you _off.”

The words make Kara’s sass die away and be replaced by a faint red blush. Her smile becomes ditsy and she chuckles. “Yeah… Yeah you can.”

“I think I should remind you, just in case you forgot,” the thief smirks at the Dragonborn’s increasing flush. Vex steals Kara’s lips again and dips hands to the woman’s waist. She coaxes the thin breeches Kara wears off her body. The Dragonborn stretches under Vex’s warm gaze, not shy about her body. The two women kiss again; Kara enjoys the thief’s tenderness. Vex may have a lot of bite, but she is careful and gentle when she wants to be.

Then the thief reaches for her breasts and the tenderness gives way to passion. There’s a hunger in the woman’s touch, seeking to bring pleasure in her lover. Kara hums in delight; the thief is a thoughtful lover, one who deserves all the world. She makes sure to voice it; the Dragonborn moans loudly when Vex’s mouth sucks on her neck. She begins to squirm and tense as the thief takes her time leaving marks along the crook of Kara’s neck. The latter’s obsidian-black skin is left with faint gray marks where the thief’s marked her.

“Oh, that’s,” Kara gasps audibly when the thief begins to work her way lower. Every touch is warm and loving, and it reflects the reciprocated desire shared between both ladies. She leans back into the pillows on the bed and lets Vex do as she please.

And, _gods, _Vex knows how to please. Kara can’t keep her mouth shut when the thief’s tongue begins to work around her pelvis, tenderly caressing and massaging the skin. The hint of nervousness Vex showed on the duo’s first intimate encounter is gone; the thirty-three-year-old thief is incredibly confident in where she pries and explores. Kara tenses in each touch; her breathing grows shallow and she begins to pant as Vex’s tongue explores and embraces. Each new flick of the woman’s tongue has Kara’s fingers in Vex’s soft hair, desperately trying not to grab too tightly despite the want emboldening her reactions. She begins to squirm and writhe her hips. Vex draws back and huffs. “—You can’t crush my _head_—With your _thighs—_Damnit, Kara, how am I supposed to get you done?”

“Fuck, I _don’t know,_” is all the Dragonborn can mumble in response, a daze of lust. She gasps and presses her hips into Vex’s hand when the thief adjusts her position and hooks a finger inside. The long, slender digit rubs the roof of her muscles. It’s everything she needs; Kara clenches her eyes shut and she shudders involuntarily as the motions wash over her in a blissful, tender orgasm. Vex continues a moment, causing the Dragonborn to tremble and squeeze the thief’s finger.

The thief smiles fondly at Kara. She pulls out her finger and wipes it off on the sheets. “—Y’know, I really like that look on your face. The one when you’ve _lost _all sense of yourself from things I do. It’s… It’s appealing.”

“Don’t you dare say it’s cute!” Kara laughs at the idea. She grins sheepishly at Vex and tilts her head to one side. “But Gods damn, I’m a lucky woman.”

“Maybe too lucky. Your turn to wash the sheets.” Vex crinkles her nose and huffs. “But we could probably clean up first. It’s, what? Noontime? I haven’t been out of the room _all day_—We need a walk, fresh air, pickpocket a Brotherhood’s pocket coin or something!”

“We can figure that out later,” Kara grumbles and squirms to lean into the thief’s embrace when Vex shifts and lays down next to her. She silently thanks Mara that the thief doesn’t mind her sweaty, clammy body. The Dragonborn drapes an arm over her favorite thief and sighs. “I don’t think I’ll be available for a few days once this… This Prince business starts again.”

“Do you really have to get involved in that bullshit?” Vex’s eyes dim.

“I guess I’m kinda a Prince again. Besides,” Kara shuts her eyes and grimaces. “—When the Princes vote for Sheogorath to die—I want to say goodbye. I want to look the Daedra in the eyes and watch the light fade from them. For everything he’s taken from me, and everything else he took from those I care about.”

Except she doesn’t, not entirely. The call for vengeance inside her chest died when she first connected the dots, that the man she grew to care for as a friend, a compatriot, a fellow thief, that _Rune _was the Daedric Prince of Madness and long-lost Fallen Hero of Kvatch. Kara finds the days leading up to the Feast of Princes to be one of anxiety rather than anticipation. She knows what will occur, and she knows she wants Sheogorath dealt with, yet no joy comes from the thought of watching his body rot and dispel into nothing. She finds only horror in the thoughts.

_A horror at the fate awaiting the man who took everything from me. Who took so much from Sahkriimir. _Kara finds her thoughts run on loop often. During the rare occasion she finds Sahkriimir alone—the Listener seems to have since patched up their relationship with Brynjolf, since the man practically dotes on them and Mullokah head-to-toe, damn honeymoon phase of a relationship if she had to guess—Kara tries to inquire about Sheogorath’s whereabouts, his status, and how Sahkriimir intends to handle him. She asks again, again, again, just like the Brotherhood’s jester repeats, repeats, repeats in speech.

At one point, the Dragonborn finds the questions cause Sahkriimir to stop and spin on their heels. The Listener squints and asks quietly, “Why does it matter to you, _dii dovahkiin? _The _dez _of this _et’Ada._”

The two are alone in a spiraling staircase, where Sahkriimir assists Kara in carrying up a load of wash for not only the thieves of the Obsidian End, but also that of the assassins in the Brotherhood. It doesn’t pass by Kara that the Dark Brotherhood’s Listener wears a pair of Brynjolf’s breeches.

“—I don’t think you were there for—When—I called him Rune. And he responded. He confirmed he’s Rune, from the Guild.” Kara glances to the side and sighs. It’s not the setting for a serious conversation, but nothing seems to be a good setting for conversation with Sahkriimir most days.

Sahkriimir’s silver eyes gleam faintly. “Incorrect.”

“What?” Kara’s eyes widen. “Wait, you were actually there? I didn’t—Oh, invisibility potions.” Kara grimaces.

“Babette supplied them. The Brotherhood’s Speaker is a master alchemist,” Sahkriimir states matter-of-factly. They put the crate of dirty clothes on the stairs and cross their arms. “What does it change, _dovahkiin? _Does it change what _Rune _did to us? Does it change the fact you fell from the sky at the Throat of the World? Does it change the years I spent imprisoned under him?”

“That wasn’t—That was Jyggalag! Sahkriimir, he was using Rune!” Kara finds her retort comes a shred too quickly, too sharply, yet very, very sincere.

Sahkriimir blinks slowly. “Are we not responsible for our actions, _dovahkiin?_ Do not be a _mey._”

“If we’re taking responsibility all of a sudden—Shouldn’t you be on your hands and knees groveling for forgiveness from all of humanity?” The Dragonborn grits her teeth. Her eyes darken at the apathy Sahkriimir displays. “Gods, Sahkriimir, this isn’t just—This isn’t a black-and-white situation! You’ll be a hypocrite if you execute him now.”

“I am already a hypocrite, _dovahkiin._ Even if I seek redemption, I will never escape the fact I was _Voldusos._ I may try, and I _will _try to be a different individual than the Firstborn of the Firstborn of Akatosh, but I will never be separate from that legacy. I accept that,” the Listener states each word calmly. “Besides, we were never truly _good, _Kara. None of us. I am one of two leaders of a faction of assassins devoted to _Sithis_, the comfort of the Void. You were once one of us. It is in our blood, you and I, the innate desire to destroy, kill, dominate, rule. It is the nature of all dragons. Not even Paarthurnax could escape it in the end.”

Kara sets her laundry down. She peers at the crate, where here own dirty enchanted leather armor is in dire need of a complex scrub only Babette can concoct. Regular soap might interfere with the enchantments and quality of the armor.

“…He was your—What?” Kara pauses. “Uncle?”

“Yes, he taught me about ambition. It was part of his name, how ironic.” Sahkriimir shakes their head. “Kara, tell me. Miraak sent letters describing the Throat of the World. He never saw the skeleton of Paarthurnax. Did you? Or did you not?”

“I did not.”

The Listener stills. “…I believe he was there, but not killed upon Alduin’s return. There was no skeleton. Do you know what this means?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.” Kara raises a brow.

Sahkriimir snorts. “I believe Paarthurnax… He chose to return to Alduin’s side. Whether to ally himself again, or use Alduin to defeat an _et’Ada, _or perhaps… use the _et’Ada _to defeat Alduin… He left with my Blood-Father to the Shivering Isles. No matter how great the reason, how noble intention, he gave in to his desire to destroy and joined _dov _in invading my former Lord’s domain.”

“High Hrothgar was destroyed, Sahkriimir. You really think Paarthurnax would turn his back on the Greybeards so easily? Let them die a cruel death?”

“—No. Perhaps… he traded loyalty for their lives. A moment of protection for his service in Alduin’s army once more. Remember, Kara. When you went off-script—These cycles were not merely _storylines, _events predetermined to unfold a certain way. Those of us who were and are aware… up until then—We were made to deal with this information. I wonder what Paarthurnax thought, stuck in cycles of war against his elder brother, against my Blood-Father? _Krosis._ We will never know.” 

“Can’t we ask him? You could—You can bring him back from the dead, right?” Kara’s eyes grow big. “Sahkriimir, you could bring him back! It would be good for Miraak’s dragons to have someone equally-paced to keep an eye on them! The Skeleton Key—”

“That is impossible.” The Listener snorts. “_Dovahkiin, _you act as if I _killed _Voldusos.”

“Well…” Kara puts her hands on her hips. She frowns. “Didn’t you?”

“The Dark Brotherhood and I… We entered the Isles with a different plan. But it was… much worse than we thought, so much worse, _maar_. Terrible!” Sahkriimir shakes their head and sighs. Their shoulders slump. “I arranged for… Lucien Lachance to be disguised as me. To distract Jyggalag, while I… I wanted to figure out what Sheogorath did to you. Reverse that. You are a Prince now, yes? _Et’Ada?_”

At Kara’s nod, the Listener exhales sharply.

“Good, good,” Sahkriimir runs a hand through their hair. “Lucien actually… I did not anticipate him trapping Jyggalag’s _zii_. It was… lucky.”

“I know a thing or two about luck.” Kara remarks offhand, glancing at the stairs.

“Focus, _dii dovahkiin!_” Sahkriimir stomps a foot. “I improvised with Voldusos! Pulled them from you! Took them to a location with less casualties! Climbed a wall! Called them up! All of it—Was _luck_—That it worked—That Voldusos did not strike me down before—That the entropy did not implode them upon the realm—It was luck. And,” they clench their teeth and exhale. The experience has impacted them more than Kara realizes, and the Dragonborn falls silent in acknowledgement to the fact. “And then… I jumped into their gullet. Stabbed the Skeleton Key into their _zii_… I did not _krii dovah. _I unlocked their potential to cease existing. Every _zii _inside them, every _zii c_onsumed, their _thu’um _and the _thu’um_s of _dov du _before my arrival—They ceased to be.”

“By Zeus,” Kara breathes the words softly. She stares at the Listener. “You didn’t just—You’ve killed your own race, Sahkriimir. That means the only dragons left… The Dragonborn, and Miraak’s dragons.”

“Yes. _Dov _have ceased to be. I believe Paarthurnax was one of them,” the Listener nods firmly. “It was the cost of the contract… To cut off my wings, I cut off wings from the realms. My _kin _should never rise to such power again. There are only… seven now, yes?”

“Three dragons and then... Me, you, Mullokah, Miraak.” Kara whistles softly. “I assume Dragonborn can’t just… pop out more?”

“Most _dovahkiin_ cannot bear progeny. We may look like _joor, _but we are still _dov_, Kara. It is… an unfortunate circumstance of our existence,” the Listener says, “Or, perhaps, according to perspective, it is a blessing to the individual? It is not something you can sum up for all _dovahkiin_. Nor should you. _Dovahkiin _are… complicated. Have so many of us ever existed in a _tiid _at once? Beyond Hermaeus Mora, could any of us ever research one of our own? Unravel all our secrets?”

“Then—Couldn’t it be exactly the opposite of what you’re saying? For all we know, maybe _you _and _I _just haven’t wound up… pregnant.” Kara finds the word uncomfortable on her tongue. Part of it strikes too close to home, to Earth, where memories of her Earthly husband linger.

Sahkriimir tilts their head to one side. “Perhaps. I do not want to get hopes up if the answer is no. It seems those beyond dragons are attached to the idea of family units. Some individuals desperately seek to make those bonds or produce their own kin.”

“Didn’t… your Blood-Father do that, though? With you?” The Dragonborn steps out on a limb that’s thin and shaky, every bit expressed in the way Sahkriimir widens their eyes and stares at her.

“…Alduin did not care for me.” Sahkriimir states.

“Maybe he did, or he didn’t, I don’t know—But—But—_Strunvaazul._ Storm-Tear-Eternity.” Kara breathes the name.

Sahkriimir picks up their box of laundry. They peer at the clothes; it is a mess of black-and-red Brotherhood uniforms. “_Strunvaazul… _Does not exist anymore. What Lucien Lachance did to me—He cut me down as Sheogorath attempted to call me back to the Isles, the night Mercer Frey invaded. Lucien’s timing caused the split: me from Voldusos. But in that… I am not all Voldusos was. I will never shout again, Kara. _Dovahkiin. _I cannot. Likewise… Some of the memories Voldusos once possessed… I do not have them. I cannot. They do not exist anymore; Voldusos is no more and I do not regret the actions that led to that.”

“Oh. I’m sorry for asking.” Kara picks up her laundry bin and follows the Listener down the staircase.

It doesn’t dawn on Kara until the night prior to the Feast of Princes that she has forgotten a piece to the madness of her existence in the current cycle of the universe. It is the realization that makes her jolt _awake_ in the middle of the evening—what the Dark Brotherhood has since imposed as _evening _among the Crystal Lattice plane—when she normally would sleep soundly next to Vex. Only, instead of coming to in her cozy bed next to a woman she adores, she snaps upright and finds herself in utter darkness. 

It is another plane of Oblivion, for mortals can travel the lengths and expanse of realms and space to witness the horrors, beauty, and depths of a Daedric Prince’s creation. Normally, a _Daedric Prince _isn’t privy to such free flow travels and effortless transportation. But she is also the universe’s consumer. She is the devourer, the connection to Earth, and that entails other Princes projecting realms into her mind.

_Apparently. _Kara’s brows furrow.

She doesn’t recognize the plane, but _darkness _points to one of two Princes. The Dragonborn stands and breathes her guess aloud, but a whisper against an endless void.

_“Nocturnal.”_

“Glad you could join me and my darlings,” the shadows dance around Kara’s body. In the distance, Nocturnal rises from the darkness and sits upon nothing, a magnificent black-feathered avian opposed to the feminine figure Kara is used to seeing. The Queen of Murk’s eyes—beady, a full moon’s brightness—focus on Kara, probing her appearance, her form, and gauging her emotions. Nocturnal sings softly, “Hello, Daedraborn. Welcome to my Evergloam.”

“Less exciting than I thought it would be,” She sucks in a breath. Ravens fly overhead and squawk at her, but Kara ignores them. “What do you want?”

“Blunt, are we? All of a sudden—Throwing aside technicalities, ignoring the terms and conditions you’ve used to survive up till now?” The great avian lurches forward. Nocturnal’s true form is easily ten feet tall. She looms over Kara’s figure and stalks the Dremora hungrily. “What about our pact, mm? I gave you weeks, Daedraborn… I’ve waited long enough. Where are my new Nightingales? My artifact?”

Kara swallows. “Hey—Hey. Hey. _Hey. _You can’t just—Listen. Listen,” she grits her teeth and forces herself to focus. Things aren’t like when the duo met in the Twilight Sepulcher. Kara is a _Prince _now. She narrows her gaze and straightens upright. “Nocturnal. I’m _working _on getting your key back. Sahkriimir agreed to return it once Sheogorath—”

“You really believe the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood will give up such a powerful artifact? Foolish, foolish consumer,” the avian howls and hisses. The creature’ feet have ebony talons, razor-sharp and prime to kill in the darkest of nights. Nocturnal tilts her head to one side. “You’re in _luck _today, Kara… because I’m not holding that against you, oh _no, _I wouldn’t dream of it!”

Kara wants to cuss the bird-Prince out for shitty puns, but now is not the time.

“Let’s allow your obligations over _that _pact dissolve… yes, such a beautiful thing, let’s do that.” The bird melts into the shadows and Nocturnal’s humanoid form rises, pale skin a sharp contrast against the shadows shrouding her form. She strides forward to Kara and sinks nails into the Dremora’s shoulders. Kara hisses and glares at her. Nocturnal smiles politely. “Let’s talk about your other pact, Kara.”

“What other pact?” The Daedraborn grits her teeth. She’s annoyed now. “_Let go of—"_

_You’re in luck today. _Kara forgot where the luck came from.

Nocturnal smirks. The Queen of Murk releases the Dremora and shifts backward, calling crows to land on her shoulders with a single gesture. She glances at Kara. “Good—That look of horror, utterly indescribable. Satisfying! I love it almost as much as I shall love tomorrow. You remember.”

“What is it?” The Dremora demands the other Prince. “Nocturnal! What do you _want? _What do you want?”

“You dare use that tone with _me? _That’s uncalled for,” Lady Luck sits in the darkness and crosses one leg over another. “Are you forgetting what you wagered, Daedraborn? What will be given to _me? _You bet your soul as collateral, as promise to carry out my favor.”

“I remember,” Kara hisses. “I remember! I remember, just tell me! What do you want? You can’t make me kill.”

“Or make others kill for you,” Nocturnal hums thoughtfully. “You made that clear.”

“Tell me what you want—stop dancing around the subject!” Kara snaps.

“My dear Daedraborn—If you recall—The _Feast of Princes_ is tomorrow. We will meet and we will decide to kill Sheogorath,” the Queen of Murk utters without pause. “To do so—To _permanently _revoke his existence—I imagine your friend, the Listener, will use _my _Skeleton Key to ensure things go smoothly, that his _mortal _form can be permanently killed in the first place. _Then_ he will be executed.”

_Rune. _Kara’s eyes dim. She feels bile rise in the back of her throat. “I won’t kill—”

“No, you won’t. But you will intervene in his execution, Kara,” Nocturnal smiles. “You are going to offer yourself as executioner. It's an honor; you've earned it from all the things he's done to screw you over. And when the time comes, when _Rune _is made to kneel and the headsman blade is to drop—You will seize the _Wabbajack _from the Dark Brotherhood’s Listener and you will plunge its magic into Rune’s soul.”

_“I won’t kill him,”_ Kara hisses. "Nocturnal—"

“Oh, Kara,” Nocturnal props herself up on an elbow. Her humanoid form’s eyes carry malice when she gazes at the Dremora and hums, “It’s not going to _kill him_.”


	49. feast of princes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she has a debt to repay. she must perform a favor to satisfy it. and in doing so, she knows the inevitable will happen, but that's her problem, and hers alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three separate epilogues to come... but this is it folks. this is officially the end of the main story. :0  
thank u all for joining me on this long rollercoaster  
i hate chemistry and love u all  
enjoy

It’s clear she isn’t the same. From the moment she stirs from the dream, to the second aspects—partial manifestations—of different Princes are allowed entry into the Crystal Lattice, everything becomes an overwhelming haze of people, lights, and things. It should be a happy day; she has dreamed of vengeance for so long. She has dreamt it in the form of a sweet, idealized fantasy where things are cookie-cutter and easily resolved, where Sheogorath is not _Rune _and she feels no guilt over his impending demise, where she is a _hero _and he is the _villain _and the world abides by black-and-white morals. She dreams, she dreams, and she _dreams, _but she has since awoken to the dream and become aware of her nausea at the inevitable.

She doesn’t want Sheogorath to die. She specifically doesn’t want the _Rune _inside Sheogorath to die. Her displeasure, her mood, her presence and the atmosphere around her, it is noticeable to others. Even as the grand hall, once _throne room_, fills, Kara is solemn and silent. She sits at the right side of the farthest end of the table, closer to the door in case she needs to up and leave in the middle of things. Sanguine sits to her left as a small consolidation. While other Princes settle in their aspect forms—Sanguine himself is a delightfully alluring Dremora of seven feet once more—the Lord of Indulgences turns and eyes her.

“Kara,” his voice is concerned. He isn’t drunk, not yet, though the Prince does pull a wine bottle from the sleeve of his shimmering black robes. Sanguine gently coaxes Kara to look at him using a hand. “Something’s on your mind.”

“Yeah.” The Dragonborn states softly. She doesn’t miss how other Princes—notably Clavicus Vile, his head has since regenerated back unto his body—give her and Sanguine looks. Kara feels Sanguine’s hand shift and grab hold of her own on the table. Her eyes dim, but she says nothing.

“Do they make you nervous?” Sanguine pauses and glances down the table. He huffs and leans back in his seat. He shoves his feet on the table and lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “They’re all shit, honestly. Maybe not Vile, not all the time. When he’s reasonable. But you’re a _Prince _now, Kara.”

_Rune’s going to… _

When she says nothing, Sanguine stiffens. He throws his feet back on the ground and sits up. He looks at Kara and frowns. “Kara?”

“I don’t know what will happen to him,” She whispers softly.

“We’re going to decide to kill him. But _formally_, because creatures of Oblivion got to abide by certain rules.” Sanguine pauses. His gaze narrows. “Are you… worried, Kara? About _Sheogorath?_”

“_Yes, _Sanguine, about—About _Sheogorath,_” Kara hisses the name under breath. The two have begun to attract attention from Princes _all _along both sides of the table. It doesn’t escape Kara how Nocturnal seems to smirk. Kara grits her teeth and seethes at the Queen of Murk. Her grip on Sanguine’s hand tightens to the point he raises both brows.

“Ow?” The Prince snorts.

“Sorry,” Kara shuts her eyes and draws her hands back. She puts her hands in her lap. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

_Gods, _she’s reminded how fucking much he cares. Because he wouldn’t just go up to a random Dremora and say he _loves them _like he’s done with her before. He wouldn’t pay so much bloody attention to her needs, or wants, or desires, like he’s done since, what? The middle to late time spent in the last universe? But instead of being comforted by his concern, or indulging his inquiries into what in Hades is wrong with her, Kara is annoyed. She feels annoyed. _Sanguine _annoys her.

“Do you want me to sit at a different end of the table?” Sanguine huffs.

Kara looks back at him and find his ruby red eyes make her recoil. Her stomach flips. She pushes her seat back, rises, and states quietly. “Tell them to… Tell them to talk, chat, _whatever _without me. I need air.”

She needs to be away from everyone. She needs to do something else. She needs to focus elsewhere. And, more importantly, she needs to speak to Sheogorath, to _Rune_, before his execution time comes. She ignores the snaps and quips of Princes when she flees the room. She ignores Sanguine’s bewildered and baffled and _so, so many things, he cares too much but he can’t help her _stare at her back. She runs from the central structure of the Obsidian End and soars in her sprint down spiraling staircases. Each step is foreboding and each step takes her closer to the inevitable.

She reaches the bottom of the stairs. Her heart pounds in her throat. She’s a mess of emotions, a mix of madness and adrenaline, and she feels the entropy burn in her veins. It gives her purpose; it fuels her to act. She bolts for the dungeons of the castle and reaches the end of long corridors and twisting halls in what feels like seconds but she knows is far, _far _longer than that. Kara halts in the dungeon’s main corridor. Not a hint of light permeates the cellblock; it is solely magical fire that offers any source of light. Though supplies for _holding _prisoners is abundant, only one of the cells is filled.

Interestingly enough—Brynjolf is the guard for it. Kara curses under her breath but gives the man a _calm, calm, calm _smile as she walks up. She knows she doesn’t look too out of place; she is, after all, a _thief_ who has the blessing of the Brotherhood’s Listener to walk the grounds of the entire plane without fear. Her clothes are neat and orderly; for once she is grateful she doesn’t wear her armor. Running around in humble civilian attire lets Brynjolf know she doesn’t have any concealed weapons on her, only a _very _obvious and standard dagger that used to belong to Vex.

She doesn’t know why it’s relevant. It’s not like she intends to hurt him. She has no desire to.

“Lass,” Brynjolf sits on a bench on the far side, directly opposite the cellblock containing the fallen Hero of Kvatch. He’s taken a more serious approach to his dress; being a guard entails wearing fancy dark armor, apparently, though Kara admits it fits him quite nicely. She winces at the sight of his prosthetic sticking out from one leg of his breeches; part of her still feels responsible for not being more careful with Kruziikrel during that flight.

Kara musters a smile. Her hands shake and she closes them into tight fists as she strides up. The woman looks at the cellblock, where she sees Rune—_no, no, no, Sheogorath_—on a cot with his back turned to the two. She clears her throat. _Inconspicuous. I have to be… No, wait, I don’t. I don’t? _

She blurts out the words, “Are you guarding him by yourself?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Rune—_Sheogorath!!!_—states from the cell. He holds up an arm, where the sleeve of a once-decadent two-pieced suit has been torn off. Kara spies multiple keyhole scars squirming underneath the man’s flesh.

“Lassie made sure he couldn’t up and leave, even _if _he gets magicka back after the poison the Brotherhood’s dumped into him.” Brynjolf shrugs. “I think it’s a bit much, but I’m not arguing security.”

_Sahkriimir intends to kill him. They are going to kill Rune. _Kara bites her lip. “No, no. I think you’re right. I think it’s a little excessive. Rune!” She calls to Rune—_Sheogorath, SHEOGORATH—_from where she stands. “Are those marks from the Skeleton Key?”

Rune, Sheogorath, Rune, the former _hero _snorts where he lays. “No shit, Kara.”

“Hey, lass, weren’t you s’posed to be attending that… what you call it? A Feast for Princes? Fancy stuff.” Brynjolf raises a brow.

Kara looks to the side. “I felt sick, so I left for a bit. It’s not like _I _don’t know what’s going to happen.”

It’s not a lie. It’s not a lie. She’s not a liar.

“Ah. Can’t blame you there.” The man smiles and taps the spot next to him on the bench.

Kara takes a seat. She exhales sharply and leans back. Her eyes drift to Brynjolf, where she spots the gleam of familiar metal. “Is that—Are you wearing Sahkriimir’s Amulet of Mara again? Underneath your shirt? _Really?_”

“They told me it looks good on me. _Handsome._”

“Good Jehovah, you two are acting like schoolkids with crushes.” Kara shakes her head. “I think the entire universe is _well aware _you two are involved.”

“And?” The ginger-haired man huffs. He crosses his arms. “I like that about Lassie. They don’t always take things seriously. Sometimes a bit of mischief makes everything more fun.”

“…and now you’re starting to sound like someone I know.” The Dragonborn grimaces at the thought of Sanguine. She feels bad deserting him right after the two _finally _met up following the mess at the Shivering Isles. Kara can’t let herself linger on the subject. It’s too much, too overwhelming, and it reminds her why she’s there.

_Why am I there? _The Dragonborn freezes. Color drains from her face. She coughs.

Brynjolf pauses. His eyes catch hers. “Are you alright, lass?”

“This is going to be way out of line,” Kara blurts out. “But how in Hades did you—How could you—Sahkriimir and Cicero.”

_Yep, that was a bit too much. _Kara winces at the man’s expression. Brynjolf’s eyes are big and full of shock, likely at the fact she had the audacity to even _mention _the event. She’s genuinely baffled when the man exhales, considers the thought, then snorts at her.

“Eh,” the thief shrugs.

_“Eh? _That was—A betrayal! Wasn’t it? They hurt you—”

“Technically,” Brynjolf rubs his chin. “They did get into that situation, sure. But my reaction at the sanctuary, lass—It was less… at _them. _It was at _everything_ for turning up that way.”

“I need an explanation.” Kara’s shoulders slump. She doesn’t understand. It doesn’t compute, much like her own perspective on _Sheogorath-Not-Rune. _

“You don’t _need—_but you want one, and I’ll oblige, only out of respect for you as an individual,” the thief stretches his arms and leans back. He stares forward. His eyes darken a moment, sour at the memory. “—I’d just found out Sahkriimir was… dead. Ran through a lot of self-blame. A lot of anger, sure. Blame all around. But the bigger thing was that they were dead, then. ‘Least how I understood it.”

“They were actually killed, apparently.” Kara states quietly.

Brynjolf sighs. “Cicero’s timing was a crock of shit. Man’s got no tact, we can agree on that?”

“Mm. He never was good at being a people person, not since the sanctuaries fell. You two got that in common.” She pauses.

“…sanctuaries fell…?” Brynjolf doesn’t ask further on it. He looks back at her. “Y’know, back at the sanctuary, what I told you Cicero said—It wasn’t entirely… It didn’t reflect _what _he said. He apologized. He kissed them. They rejected him and didn’t repeat it. Even though… I know they would’ve really wanted to. Lassie’s still fond for the man.”

“Another topic for discussion, sure, later.” Kara rubs her head and sighs. “What does this have to do with—”

“I’m not done, lass,” Brynjolf bops her head. Kara frowns and glances at him. He snorts and crosses his arms. “My point is—Sometimes the first things you feel ain’t the right ones, Kara. You take time, you think on it, and you make a better decision _then_.”

She’s almost annoyed that he actually has a point, that the thief might have pulled the bullshit with Sahkriimir and the Keeper into a _life lesson_. She doesn’t enjoy feeling like she’s five again. Kara groans and hangs her head. “Doesn’t it bother you, though? You said so yourself. Sahkriimir still cares about him. About the past Cicero, and about _this _Cicero.”

“Jester called me handsome, so—” Brynjolf breaks into laughter at Kara’s bewildered stare. He clutches his sides. “He—He _did—_But to think—You thought that was—The reason—I…!”

“Are you really forty-one, Brynjolf? Or are you _four?”_ Kara retorts dryly.

The thief tilts his head to one side. “Can’t say I don’t like the compliments. Guy’s got a _ridiculous_ charm to him. Honest, too. I was angry at first, but looking back—I appreciate the fact he up and told me what went on with him and Sahkriimir. I like that about him,” the twinkle in Brynjolf’s hazel-brown eyes makes Kara do a double-take. The thief continues after a moment, “You know—He could make a fortune if he ever quit the Brotherhood and became a thief. That outfit? Catches attention of all in a room while someone sneaks in behind to hunt pockets, eh? Maybe a bit of fun afterward?”

“…A match made in Aetherius.”

“I wonder…” For a moment it seems the man seriously considers it.

Kara stares. “Are you actually considering what I think you’re considering?”

“I read those books he has. Keeping Tomes? I think he’s got some interesting things going on—”

“For fuck sakes, Brynjolf, you—You know what? No, you go out and dip your feet into the lovely waters of _Lake Cicero!_ I know Sahkriimir will want to jump in with you.” Kara throws her hands into the air. “Just know what you’re getting yourself into and don’t rush too fast. He’s a handful. And don’t mention Arnbjorn. And don’t—Gods, why am I giving you advice on this?” The Dragonborn rakes her hands through her hair. “If for some reason—You really—After _all this_—You decide—Not my business, no, nah, nope.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” The thief pulls a flask from a bag on the floor and uncorks it. He takes a long swig and smiles faintly. “Y’know, it’s real easy to misjudge a man—”

“Do not talk to me about misjudging Cicero—We are past that topic, alright?” Kara groans.

“Aye, aye, if you say, lass.” The man’s cheeky grin is almost as irritating as one of Sanguine’s.

Kara doesn’t like how her thoughts circle back to the Daedric Prince. It reminds her why she’s there. It reminds her why her walk for air was a walk for something much more inevitable. It’s not _luck _she led herself there. It’s not _luck _she found Rune’s cell so easily. Things have a purpose, she’s starting to realize, and the inevitable comes faster than she wants it to. The final steps of her favor to Nocturnal begin with the sound of other individuals walking down the stairs. In a minute, others will arrive. Kara hates to think _why_ but she hears Rune stir and sit up on his cot and it dawns on her: he knows death comes quickly.

“Brynjolf?” Kara stands and frowns. “Does Sahkriimir—”

“_Dovahkiin, _you can speak to my face. I do not take offense at your absence at the Feast.” The voice that descends the stair is of her former _dov_, the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.

Kara spins on her heels and stares. She rests her arms at her side at the sight of Sahkriimir in rich red and black armor, the shrouded apparel fitting the short individual far better than it should. She stares at the sight of the Brotherhood’s shorter Speaker following behind, dressed in a pleated skirt and long-sleeved brown shirt.

“Oh? Kara Dragonborn?” Babette strides up to the group alongside Sahkriimir.

Kara sheepishly waves at the undeath Speaker. She lowers her hand when she remembers that it still shakes. The Dragonborn pauses at the sight of Sahkriimir calmly crossing the cellblock to haul Brynjolf to his feet and drag him into a kiss. Kara blinks and turns away to Babette. “I wanted to—”

_Pretend you want to be the executioner. _

“—Be the one to kill him.” Kara states with an odd calmness. Her brows furrow at Babette’s bored stare.

“That’s all? Everyone here wants to _kill him. _It’s not a very original excuse.” The vampire huffs and looks beyond Kara. “You two done?”

It slightly amuses Kara to see Sahkriimir look like a deer in headlights. She doubts the Listener would know what _headlights _are, but the thought amuses her all the same. Sahkriimir smiles faintly and presses their lips to Brynjolf’s cheek, uttering something inaudible to the man before drawing back. Kara doesn’t want to know; she squints at Sahkriimir and ignores her fellow thief’s soft, faint whistle.

“Kara,” Sahkriimir peers up at the Prince. The Listener of the Brotherhood puts their hands on their hips and huffs. “You are staring, _dii dovahkiin._”

It dawns on Kara that the staff she needs, the twisted, enchanted wooden artifact known as the _Wabbajack, _is strapped to Sahkriimir’s back. Her eyes widen. She looks at the ground. Her mind reels different ways and she tries not to shudder or tremble at the inevitable.

“…Kara?” Sahkriimir’s voice dips into one of concern.

Good Gods, she had almost forgotten Sahkriimir actually _cares_ for her. In, perhaps, more than one way. The two have held shaky grounds with one another since splitting off and becoming two separate individuals following the events of the previous universe. Kara hates the thought of stabbing them in the back.

“Can I talk to you? Alone? For a moment?” The Dragonborn looks to the side. She keeps her eyes away, downcast and guilty for things she has yet to do.

“…Alright,” Sahkriimir frowns. They nod at Babette and turn to Brynjolf. “A minute, maybe two.”

“Take as long as you need, lassie,” the man’s in a good mood. He grins and steals a kiss from them before taking his leave, with Babette already halfway up the stairs. When the steps on the stairs fade, and only Kara, Sahkriimir, and _Rune, Rune, Rune _are left in the cellblock, Sahkriimir begins to tap their foot impatiently.

“—Kara. Kara! _Dii dovahkiin, _do not waste all my _tiid, _I have to drag this _joor _upstairs.” Sahkriimir squints. They stiffen when Kara walks up to them. The Listener’s eyes are silvery again, shiny and gleaming evidence of their true draconic heritage.

Kara swallows and frowns. “Sorry, I’m just—Really overwhelmed—I needed to talk with you alone.”

“You aren’t alone.” Rune growls from the bars.

Kara hisses at him and looks back at Sahkriimir’s attentive gaze. They are many things, but something Sahkriimir is to Kara is a friend. A good friend. Kara’s shoulders slumps and she puts her hands on the Listener’s shoulders. Sahkriimir stiffens at the contact but Kara draws them into a tight hug. After a moment, Sahkriimir’s body relaxes. Kara’s eyes dim and she clenches them shut before before she has a chance to cry. “We’ve been through a lot.”

“We have, _dii dovahkiin. _But—It is over, soon. You did not break your promise. You helped free me.” Sahkriimir whispers softly.

“You freed yourself,” is the Daedraborn’s response. She grips Sahkriimir tightly and exhales. “I just… It’s all a nightmare.”

“Been a nightmare. We will be out of it soon. I promise.” The Listener swears solemnly.

“No, no, I won’t,” the Dragonborn whispers and it makes Sahkriimir draw back, but not very far. The Listener opens their mouth to speak but Kara’s expression shushes them. Kara grits her teeth. “I can’t get out of it, Sahkriimir. I _can’t._”

“What are you talking about?” The Listener’s eyes narrow with concern.

_Take the Wabbajack. _

_“Gol hah dov!” _Kara shouts the words, a muffled _I’m sorry _following. She rips the _Wabbajack_ from Sahkriimir’s back, the keys from their hip, and orders them in one quick sentence, “—Keep Brynjolf and Babette _back—_!”

It’s needed, because she sees Brynjolf’s form bolt down the stairs and stop at the bottom. He’s gotten better at running and walking with his prosthetic, and he’s nothing like the cheery, up-to-no-good thief who left a moment ago. He stares in disbelief at Sahkriimir’s silent form, but Kara knows he heard. His hand already reaches for one enchanted, ebony shortsword. “Kara—What are you doing?”

“I made a pact,” She says softly. “I have to! _I’m sorry!”_

“Listener!” Babette runs down the stairs and gasps at Sahkriimir’s form.

The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood is a dragon without wings, but a _dov _all the same. Sahkriimir’s hands go to locations of concealed blades.

“_What did you do to them?!” _It’s clicked in Brynjolf’s head. But Sahkriimir is already moving; the Listener has grown a lot in fighting styles and combat since initially waking up on a cart to Helgen. Kara feels only pain at the sound of ebony blades clanging off of two shortswords.

Kara fumbles with the key to the cell door. Rune’s backed from the bars, in utter disbelief at the mess she’s made. Kara narrowly opens it and slips in, locking it from the inside and spinning on her heels. Her eyes dim. She takes the Wabbajack in both hands and stares at Rune. “—Prince of Madness.”

“What are you doing, Kara? Those are your—Those are your—” Rune breathes.

_It won’t… kill him. _

“Everyone else is going to kill you, Rune, everyone else is going to come here and _slaughter you_. You aren’t going to Sovngarde, or to Aetherius, or to the Void, understand? They want you to _die,_” the Dragonborn shouts. She hears cursing just outside, but doesn’t look back. Her eyes narrow and she growls. “I wish I wanted the same! I wish I was happy with just—You—_Dying! _But I’m not! And I _owe someone a debt! _And that someone—Says this won’t _kill you._”

“You can’t—_Sloan_,” the fallen Hero lifts up his hands. They are covered in keyhole marks. Beyond the cell bars, Kara hears the sound of incessant profanity, a body hitting the ground, and the jingling of extra keys. Rune's eyes are wide and unusually fearful of his own artifact. He presses his back against the far wall of the cell and whispers, “The Wabbajack isn’t—It’s not a normal weapon—It’s _chaos—_More than chaos—It’s—"

Kara’s eyes water. She walks across the cell to the man and stares up at him. “Be a Hero this time. For me.”

The Dragonborn hears the cell door open and she stabs the end of the staff into the Daedric Prince’s gut. For a moment, all she sees is Rune’s stunned face and stone floor of the cell. Then, the Wabbajack’s energy shoots out in a glow of aching white. It expands beyond the man’s form; it encompasses the entire room, the castle, the plane, all that exists across all that was and all that is and all that will be. Entropy bleeds through existence and sours the universe. Kara hears a terrible scream, following by a ripping sound. She sees white. Only white, as far as the horizon line runs, as far as the sky dares flee and the ground follows. 

She sees white and she knows she is not herself, because there is no trace of the world she lived through. There is nothing but the expanse of chaos and, in front of her, a gleaming crown.

Sheogorath picks it up and puts it on her head.


	50. epilogue: the hero of kvatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so much for traveling to the northern province of italy.

It’s been winter for a long time. That’s what it feels like when he first begins to stir, back pressed against the uncomfortable wood of a moving cart. The creaks of wheels turning along a rudimentary road bring back familiar thoughts of old-style hayrides he took as a kid in the States. Yet when the man considers it, the thought makes no sense. He knows it should not be winter; it wasn’t winter when he went to bed after a _long_ boat tour in Venice. He knows his journals would indicate such, if he could only reach and find them. It irritates him to feel his hands as dead weight, refusing to cooperate, when he _knows—_

He feels a snowflake land on his nose. The man snaps upright with a start. Across the wagon, a handsome blond-haired man—Scandanavian, perhaps—chuckles. “Hey! You! You’re finally awake.”

“Well. Yes. I am.” The man blinks in shock. He knows he didn’t go to the bar the night prior. He had a blog to update, article to send in to his publisher, and a potential credit card problem to deal with over the telephone. Thinking on it, he recalls using his computer to unwind after the tedious evening.

“—You were trying to cross the border, right?” The blond-haired man from before speaks up again. He’s got a dashing smile and charming eyes, as deep as the sky is blue.

Except the sky isn’t blue, but grey, and snow falls overhead, and now that he looks around, he sees only an expanse of wilderness. Color drains from his face and he stares in shock at the surroundings. “…This can’t be right. What the hell?”

“Don’t know what that is, friend, but Sovngarde is where I’ll be going.” The blond-haired man grins and leans back in his seat. “But you were, weren’t you? Crossing that border by yourself. Imperials picked you up real quick.”

“I wouldn’t—That can’t be right, to hell with it,” the man protests loudly. His eyes narrow. “Why would I cross a border illegally? I have a _passport! _And a work visa, when applicable!"

Or he did, because he isn’t sure if he has one anymore given everything else around him. The man sighs and hangs his head. He feels it now: rope around his wrists, binding them and keeping him unable to do more than grumble about how deep it cuts into his hands. The man’s eyes darken and he stares at the bed of the wagon. It doesn’t dawn on him that the blond-haired gentleman and someone else in the cart are having a conversation until an argument breaks out.

“—Watch your tongue!” The blond-haired man snaps at another individual to the right of him, equally bound. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!”

Now that the individual thinks of it, he sees how each of them—save the cart driver, and a pompous but attractive man to his right—wears rags. It’s degrading to only have thin, itchy, raggedy shirts and breeches against the cold, but it is what it is. He grits his teeth and tries to suck it up as the two prisoners across him on the cart continue.

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” The prisoner right of blondie is a guy who looks the youngest of all four, a man with dark brown hair and terrified eyes. “But… He’s the leader of the rebellion… But if they captured him… by Gods, where are they taking us?”

“I don’t know where you’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.” Blondie remarks with a huff. The deep blue eyes return to _his _form and Blondie frowns. “Hey, what village are you from? You look like an Imperial to me. Funny if they got one of their own in here—”

“I’m not a—” The man retorts. He grimaces; he might have amnesia, maybe a terrible head wound, hopefully nothing too costly out-of-pocket. Italy has private healthcare, but his Italian remains terrible outside of cuisine-related terms. The man frowns and looks to the side. “…If you really need to know, I’m from _Austin, Texas. _Born and raised _texan_. But I should be—I should’ve been in Venice. I don’t have a train to catch until… Monday? Evening? Unless I miss it, then I have to take one Tuesday. Not looking forward to waking up at seven in the morning.”

His words prompt laughter from two of the prisoners. The fancy-dressed individual to his right shakes his head. _He _frowns and looks across the cart, just as Blondie interjects and, “I don’t know what that means, but good on you keeping hopes up in a time like this. It’s what we need around here.”

“Where is here, exactly?” The man frowns. “Why are we here? In this?”

“Ah, definitely a border-crosser, then.” Blondie laughs. “This here’s Skyrim, one and only. Fighting for her independence from the Empire of Tamriel!”

“From Tamriel?” The name makes something click in his head. The man’s eyes grow big. “That’s… not possible. That’s not fucking possible.”

Tamriel is a fictional setting in a video game. Tamriel is a fictional world in the Elder Scrolls series. Tamriel is a place he enjoys exploring when he cracks open his save file on his laptop and pours hours into _Oblivion. _Tamriel is…

_Real? _The man stares at the wilderness around him. “I must be dreaming.”

“You aren’t.” Blondie assures him. “What’s your name, friend? I’m Ralof. This is… Oblivion, what was your name again?”

The brown-haired guy grunts. “Lokir.”

“And that there’s the true High King—Ulfric Stormcloak!” Ralof gestures with bound hands at the fanciful-dressed man to _his _right.

He frowns. Something about the names is vaguely familiar, like he should or did know of them once. But he finds no evidence of it in his memory. He finds only the passive reminder of a deadline in a week for his next article, and the irritation that comes over needing to find a computer eventually to respond to emails of his overprotective parents. The man exhales; his mind is a mess and he’s stuck dealing with it while the wagon continues to creak out.

The man lifts his gaze back to Ralof and musters a smile. His brown hair falls around his face in a mess desperate for a comb. “Call me… Uh.”

_Who was I in my game? I was someone. It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s there, I know it is! I’m… _

"… Rune.”

“Rune?” Ralof squints. “Interesting name you got there, _Rune.”_

“Is it?” Rune shrugs. He leans back against the wagon. His eyes rise to the gray skies overhead. “Eh, I guess it is. Maybe that’s why I like it.”


	51. epilogue: the listener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the anniversary of their former dovahkiin's betrayal is upon them, and they do not wish to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw pregnancy / talk about pregnancy

They hear the door slide open behind them. The chamber is otherwise empty: a perfect crypt to house the Night Mother in darkness, with aromas of preservatives and traditional herbs lingering. They do not rise at first. Their job is to Listen, and Listen they do. The Night Mother offers the heir of darkness the names of two individuals to contact for contracts. One is surprising; the Listener finds the idea of meeting _Ulfric Stormcloak _fascinating after the way the two ‘parted’ years ago. If their attention wasn’t needed at the plane of Oblivion, they would gladly seek him out and revel in the look on his face that they still live, that they _thrive._

The second individual to contact is a name they know well. It isn’t the first time they’ve been sent for by the Jarl of Riften, nor will it be the last. When the Dark Brotherhood’s Speaker stops at their side and clears her throat, the Listener opens their silver eyes and stares at the coffin they kneel before.

“Ulfric Stormcloak and Maven Black-Briar wish to forge contracts in blood.” Sahkriimir states curtly.

Babette tilts her head to one side. She wears a long black dress, full of frills and lace befitting the adolescent she is destined to remain forever. “Is that so? Are there special conditions pertaining to a certain assassin, or can I drop whoever I want on their heads?”

“Send Veezara to Maven. He’s dealt with her before; he knows how to keep her from overstepping,” the Listener rises and exhales slowly. Their hands absentmindedly clench, a sign of the storm brewing in their eyes. “As for _Stormcloak_… Make sure whoever is sent is capable of tact. Do not let him have an inch of us. The Dark Brotherhood exists to glorify Sithis and bring souls to the void; I will _not _have any of us falter and allow mortals to control us again. Astrid made that mistake in Falkreath. Many, many times.”

Their mind thinks back to the cycles, to the universes that are no more and will never again repeat. It hurts to reflect on. Their eyes grow dark and the Listener looks away. Babette raises a brow and pauses, “…Very well, Listener. Might I ask if you intend to stare at a wall all day? Or are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”

The duo have an interesting bond. At least—Babette does. The Speaker says what she wants when she wants to, and Sahkriimir respects her lack of tact even when it irks them. They grimace. “It is that day again, Speaker.”

“It is. What anniversary this year?”

“The sixth one.” Sahkriimir and Babette walk out of the Night Mother’s sanctuary while the conversation carries on. The Listener does not hide their displeasure at the confession, because it is acknowledgement at the memory.

The Speaker hums faintly. It is Cicero’s tune; the jester’s influence spreads even when he is not present. Babette’s dark eyes gleam with many thoughts, but she shares only one. “It explains why Vex refused to train our newest initiate today. Stubborn woman.”

“It’s one of the reasons Kara liked her so much. I never understood the _dovahkiin’_s line of thought_._” The Listener retorts.

The two ascend a staircase and climb to the top, where a corridor splits in three directions. The two stride forward, follow the hall, and emerge into a common area of the castle. The training grounds are a ruckus of activity; the Dark Brotherhood’s influence has _surged _since Titus Mede the II was slain three years back. The contract turned out to be inexplicably difficult, and it nearly cost Festus his life, but the soul marked for Sithis was sent on its way in the fall of Veezara’s blade. The memory brings a faint flicker of warmth to the Listener’s soul, but it otherwise dulls.

The two pass by recruits, busy with sparring, quizzing each other on herbs, and taking up shooting practice with long-range spells. Festus Krex gives a nod at them both when the two walk by. Babette waves.

“—I must ask, Listener, if you intend on moping all day too? I need to know how available you are.” Babette follows them through a door at the far end of the chamber. It leads into an armory.

Sahkriimir meticulously plucks a dagger free from one of dozens. The Daedric blade feels overwhelmingly _powerful _in their hand. They play with it and turn it over slowly. “Does it matter? You can drag me through Oblivion, Babette, should it concern the Brotherhood.”

“It does. I tolerate your company on a good day, not a bad one.”

“Ah.”

“I know the anniversary is terrible, I do, but an old friend of yours sent a letter from _Solstheim._ Sound familiar?” Babette crosses her arms and peers at the Listener.

_Solstheim… _

“Miraak. Yes. I expected a response months ago, _mey dovahkiin _has no concept of _tiid._ Sorry excuse for a _dov._” The Listener turns the blade of their dagger over.

“Apparently, the reason he’s been out of touch is because a situation’s unraveled in Solstheim. His wife is… expecting,” Babette shrugs. The vampire pauses and eyes them. “He claims he can see the soul of a dragon in the child.”

Their gaze is distant. They lower their dagger and return it to its place on the shelf, among dozens of its kin. Sahkriimir exhales slowly. “So this race lives on… I thought the Empire put an end to it when they tracked down Relonikiv and…” They grit their teeth and quickly go on, “—A new _dovahkiin _will be a handful. Sithis knows Mullokah is trouble as it is, and the boy’s not full-grown yet.”

“Three more years?” Babette taps her chin.

“Two. He is sixteen,” Sahkriimir corrects her.

The vampire smiles. “Quite a handful. I’m glad I never turned him into a vampire. He would have riddled me with madness long before now.”

But Sahkriimir doesn’t respond. They shut their eyes and breathe in slowly, mind returning to the _madness _associated with the date.

It’s been six years since Kara bent their will and forced them to attack Brynjolf and Babette while she did something with the Wabbajack. It’s been six years of enduring pain, and not even the comfort of the Brotherhood or the growth of a new Thieves Guild in Falkreath can rectify that. Sometimes, when Sahkriimir’s mind is occupied, they temporarily forget what their former _dovahkiin _chose to do and the consequences of that action. But when they sleep, when their dreams turn to the chaos haunting the space where _Kara _once existed, they see only her tear-stricken face and mournful eyes. They envision the guilt, remorse, and horror she holds at her own actions.

They see the final moments on a loop, forever burned into their memories in a way no Daedra can ever remove. The Listener of the Brotherhood despises Kara for the actions, almost as much as they miss her. They would cut her down and raise her up in a heartbeat if it meant they could ask why.

They suppose they could, if they truly desired it. They occasionally correspond with _Sanguine, _who views them with utter disdain and ice for their inability to stop Kara. The Lord of Indulgences humors questions but it never goes anywhere. Sahkriimir believes he knows as much as they do: there is nothing they can do about it. The power of the Wabbajack is resolute, and entropy too erratic for the Skeleton Key to stop. They can only imagine what he’s tried in attempts to reverse it, just as they have done, and they can only imagine the frustration, the anger, sorrow, and grief that have repeated through the Prince’s head, just as they have felt.

The sound of dancing comes from overhead. Sahkriimir pauses and glances up. Their gaze softens, mind temporarily numbed by the antics of the jester on their lips. “Cicero is practicing again.”

“On the contrary, he’s probably teaching Brynjolf another waltz. That was a terrible idea, for the record,” Babette snorts. “How can I get any sleep with those two mucking about, stomping left and right with music only they hear? Not that I _really _sleep, Listener, but you must understand my irritation.”

“It makes them happy, and it makes me happy, too.” They pause. “What else did the letter say, Babette?”

“Speaker.”

“Speaker,” Sahkriimir frowns. “You made it out to be of such importance before.”

“Miraak… _asked _to name the child after Kara.” Babette looks to the side.

_“Absolutely not.”_ The Listener snaps without thought. Their fists clench and they feel their blood simmer with a permeable rage. “No. Send a letter back with that word. _No. _Tell him not to give his child such an accursed name. It will only spell _oblaan._ An end.”

The Speaker’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t agree, but the two rarely do. “I’ll arrange for it to get to Solstheim. It will take some time since—” Babette clears her throat at Sahkriimir’s grimace. “—Well, let’s consider looking into new ways to communicate.”

Sahkriimir _despises_ how the Empire of Tamriel has come to deal with the dragons. They cannot truly _end _without the aid of a _dovahkiin_, but trapping the souls of Miraak’s former dragons one-by-one and sealing the soul gems in the depths of the oceans ought to be considered death of its own accord. The Listener exhales slowly and calms. They glance at Babette and state, “Yes, let’s. Is that all?”

“For now.” Babette smiles.

They leave the Speaker behind and move on. Part of them considers seeking out Vex, checking in on the Dark Brotherhood’s personal infiltrator and master of lockpicking, but they give the Imperial space. They cannot offer any comfort. Vex only finds comfort in dreams, where the woman claims she sometimes has conversation with Kara. Sahkriimir does not believe it, because they know it is impossible. Kara does not exist anymore. The _Wabbajack _took her from the universe and ripped her from it. It washed the woman in entropy and turned her into something far more vile than a Dremora.

So sick and nauseating are the thoughts, Sahkriimir makes for fresh air. The Obsidian End has since built up beautiful courtyards and gardens of toxic flowers, all thanks to the power of Jyggalag kept in Lucien Lachance’s favorite blade. Sahkriimir finds the endless horizon line a beautiful sight, perhaps one of the few left in the entire universe, and they admire it from the ground as they walk through fields of violet, bell-shaped blossoms.

_Everything should be better now, _they stop at the end, where the blossoms fade into a field of orange dragon tongue blooms. Sahkriimir flops in the middle and inhales the aromas. _But you are not here, dovahkiin. Why did you leave us? Why did you leave me? _

They lay there for a time, until their eyes drift shut. They listen to faint sounds of constructs at work maintaining upkeep on the Obsidian End, to the shouts and clashing of initiates sparring deeper within the castle, and to the heartbeat in their ears. None of it comforts them. They feel swarmed by responsibilities, but they know the emotion is temporary; it will pass, and they will resume being a composed and astute Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.

“Lassie,” they pause at footsteps running to them. When Sahkriimir glances up, their eyes land on a man with wrinkles and a charming smile reserved _especially _for them. “Can I borrow you a moment?”

Sahkriimir’s lips curl into a smile. Brynjolf sounds gleeful and _far_ too excited for a man in his forties, but that’s precisely why they oblige. They take the hand he offers and let him pull them to their feet. Brynjolf takes a hand in his, brown eyes engulfed in mirth at unspoken prospects. He puts his other hand on their hip and they instinctively shift their free hand to his shoulder. They raise both brows. “You’re proving Babette right, you know.”

“Eh?” The thief pauses, then he chuckles. “That tiny lass knows us well. But he hasn’t been practicing with me lately—Mainly working on… what would you call it, lassie? A solo? Side jig?”

“It sounds like him.” They smile and follow his lead when the man begins the steps of the dance. It’s familiar, one of the first dances the Keeper of the Brotherhood ever taught them, only at that moment Brynjolf is the one dancing with them instead of Cicero. Dancing with him and Cicero is one of the few things capable of invoking genuine happiness.

When the dance finishes, Brynjolf spins them around. They feel him pull them back to him, arms wrapping around their torso from behind. Sahkriimir hums with delight and leans back into him. “He’s done a good job teaching you. One of these days we should reward him.”

“Now there’s a thought,” the thief smiles and presses a kiss against their temple. “I’d like to see that, but we’d have to work with his schedule—And he can’t bring any of those preservatives into the bedchamber again.”

“You don’t enjoy the smell of embalming oils in the morning?” Sahkriimir laughs. They hold their smirk when the man huffs and lets go. Brynjolf releases them, only to turn them around and squint. They peer up at him innocently. “I thought you were the adventurous one. _Mey dov, zu’u lost folaas. _I was wrong.”

“—Far from it.” The man states politely. He caresses their face and leans down to kiss them. They feel the familiar heat begin to light in their abdomen, deep and wanting for more. They can feel it off of him, too, the way his hands begin to skip from their face to their shoulders. He’s good about skipping their neck, never forgetting how the area is a trigger for them.

A thought crosses their mind, one that has them draw back a second before their breathlessness steals their voice for the duration of the evening. Sahkriimir peers up at him, “—Oh—Miraak sent a letter.”

Brynjolf’s confused face makes them snort.

“It’s good news,” the Listener huffs. They smile at him and state curtly. “Apparently—You’re going to be an uncle."

“Cadha’s…” The man’s eyes light up with realization. He grabs their shoulders. “My sister’s having a child? When? Does she need anything, lassie?”

“I haven’t actually read the letter yet,” Sahkriimir confesses. They look to the side. “—But Babette told me earlier. Miraak thinks—Miraak thinks the child’s going to be a _dovahkiin._”

The Nord whistles. His smile is wide and happy. “I need to visit them. Maybe Mullokah will want to tag along, eh? Meet his future cousin? Dragonborn-to-be? Do you want to come, lassie?”

Their eyes dim. “—Ah, I cannot. I have obligations as Listener to—Brynjolf! _Brynjolf!_”

In a second, the man has picks them up and tosses them over his shoulder. They hear him chuckle. The Listener huffs at him and looks down, watching his steps as he carries them back inside the castle, but through a different entrance than the one initially exited out of. They can see the heel of his prosthetic foot with each step. He’s become exceptionally good at walking and running with the newer version, compliments of an innovator in Markarth.

He drops them back on their feet in a lone corridor. They peer at him and note his calm, coy smile. He’s not good at hiding intentions to _them_. They stare, and they stare, and they stare, until the thief budges and states, “—You know, lassie, this is good news. Really good news.”

“That I can’t come to Solstheim? Rude, Brynjolf,” the Listener states dryly. “I hope you two have a _grand _time. I will stay at home with the chicken.”

“Not that—” the thief steps closer and peers at their eyes. The intensity in his brown gaze makes them pause. Brynjolf pauses. “Sahkriimir—Do you—Do you _remember_ when we tried for a kid?”

“...Three years ago,” Their face flushes pink. “—You want to try again?”

His response comes in the form of a deep, aching kiss that makes Sahkriimir wrap their arms around the man’s neck. Brynjolf draws back an inch and smiles. “Think we could, lassie? I think Mullokah’d like a little sibling. And hearing—Hearing it from Miraak—That it’s _possible—_”

“Yes,” they cut him off and press their lips against his. They feel his grin against them and they hear the jiggling of a door being unlocked, one of many along the corridor. If they didn’t know he was a _thief_ they might wonder how he got a copy of the keys to the private quarters of assassins of the Brotherhood. But he is a thief, and they are hopelessly enamored by him, and when he pulls them inside and locks the door, they let the bitterness of that day fade away and be replaced with all the warmth he inspires.

The pained feelings may return tomorrow, but tonight Sahkriimir is occupied with other things.


	52. epilogue: the prince of madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sheogorath enjoys crashing parties.

The parties continue across the realms of revelry, spurned by a notorious visitor and the glow of white that follows each step. The individual dons a two-piece suit and embroidered top-hat full of sequins and plumes of white peacock feathers as she ascends the steps to the decadent mansion and waves the door open. It buckles and dissolves under the weight of entropy, fueled into rot and ruin with a glance. A long laugh follows, and the feast hall beyond falls into silence as the person comes to a stop. The slim, crisp suit is of a clean white material; silver cuff links meet near the ends of each sleeve and the pant leggings look recently ironed. The Daedra adjusts each gleaming adornment as the master of the hall, the Lord of Indulgences, bellows from his throne—

_“Everyone out.” _

It pleases her ears, and it makes her grin with an abundance of confidence, nevermind the rose rapier at the Prince’s side, or the full plate of armor he dons. The Daedra’s eyes are a vicious, furious ruby, and the hate they hold for her is almost equal to the grief locked inside. There is no friendliness, no banter, no sass or charm offered. She doesn’t want the hospitality regardless; there is a _schedule _and she must abide by it.

“Hello, my dear,” Sheogorath smiles and takes a bow. She straightens upright and tips her hat at the Prince once everyone is absent from the room. She winks at the Prince’s butler when he too leaves, and Sullivan’s look of disgust pleases her greatly.

“Did you come here to die, Prince of Madness?” Sanguine’s words hold a very real threat to them. He’s capable of such threats, ever since receiving back all the power he once put into making _someone _a body. 

“Oh, maybe I did, who’s to say? I never was good at making up my mind. Do you remember the time—”

“Not one word. Don’t come here and pretend you’re her,” The Lord of Indulgences is in front of her in a second, effortlessly bypassing the chairs of former party guests and patrons, the food on the table, and the mess of clothes of the ground. He doesn’t tower over her anymore, and she stares at him with glowing white eyes that reek of malice. Sanguine’s hand goes to his rapier and he snaps, _“Sheogorath._”

“Hmm, hard to do, hard to say, hard to say and do and all that today—Because, Sanguine, _because_, no matter how much you deny it—I _am _her. We are we, yes?” The top hat is tipped again and Sheogorath gleefully whops the other Prince’s nose. The Prince of Madness laughs at how red Sanguine’s face becomes. She ducks under his swing and moves back, inching toward his throne and holding her sides. “You are still _terrible _with your aim!”

“Leave!” He could kill her if he wanted, rip her in two. Her magicka stores only go so far, and him back to full strength puts him at a superior positive in terms of raw strength.

_But you won’t. You won’t! You won’t! _Sheogorath’s hair frays with each movement. She can duck and weave around Sanguine effortlessly, even toying with him before spiriting away. Her grin only grows as the game goes on, a matter of his restraint fighting her stubbornness. When the Daedric Prince finally gets grabbed by the arm, she begins to laugh hysterically at how gentle he is. “—So _soft_, Sanguine—!”

Sanguine releases her like she's radioactive. She laughs and jumps away, sticking a landing unto the long table of indulging food and wines.

“Why did you come here?” The Lord of Indulgences seethes with rage.

“Actually, I lost a bet with myself.” Sheogorath hums and shrugs. She adjusts her hat and jumps off the table, cracking multiple plates of fine ceramic underneath her boots. She shakes herself out and peers at him. “Now, now, don’t give me that look! Would you give Kara that look?”

_“Don’t say her name.”_

“I can, and I will, because it’s _my _name,” the entropy muses aloud. She shrugs. “But if you really want me to go then perhaps I’ll take my leave—”

“—Wait.”

Sheogorath smiles. _“Yes, _dear?”

“What bet?” His voice is icy cold.

The Prince of Madness huffs and kicks aside a chair. It breaks and crumbles from effect of her magic, deteriorating instantly until no more than dust. “I was playing a _game, _you see, a game with cards, many, many cards! A game with cards that looked like _me. _I have a lot of me’s, ones you’ve met, some you know, but the me that wants to be me as you see is none other than the one and _only_—”

The clothes crinkle and the body warps, phasing from a tall Daedra to a figure that comes a foot shorter than Sanguine. The individual’s eyes hold the glowing white, but she gasps and breathes and trembles in an oversized suit as if just surfacing out of water. The figure shakes violently with chills and wraps her arms around herself. The exhale that comes is not from her, but of the other Daedric Prince in the room when he acknowledges what’s happened. A moment later, arms wrap around her and she leans into the Daedra’s touch. Sanguine’s voice is soft and hesitant when he breathes. “Kara?”

Her eyes water. She looks up at him in a hat as ridiculous as everything else is with her existence. “Hi.”

“What did you do?” The Lord of Indulges asks softly.

“They’re all alive.” She whispers. “They’re all alive.”

“Kara—I know that. We all know that. _What_ did you do? Where is the Wabbajack?” Sanguine's eyes hold many words he wants to say.

_“They’re all alive._” She repeats.

He inhales deeply. The Lord of Indulgences caresses her face with one hand and wraps his other arm around her. She leans into each touch, as greedy for warmth as she is for freedom. Sanguine grimaces. “—Oblivion, what a mess.”

“Yeah,” Kara reaches for him and wraps arms around his neck. Her eyes drift shut and she exhales softly against him, every bit as desperate to entwine herself with him as he is with her. It’s not enough, but it is all either have. Kara feels his lips meet hers and she kisses him back with as much strength as she can muster, trembling all the while. But it doesn’t last, and she has to part for air, but she finds solace in the beautiful ruby red eyes that land on her. “I love you, you know. A lot. A lot. Sanguine. You're my favorite."

“How did you convince yourself to let you out?” His eyes dim. "How do I convince you to let you out?"

“I lost a bet with myself,” is the only thing she can tell him, a struggle against the force of chaos that reeks in her soul. She grabs his face and plants a quick kiss on his lips before releasing him entirely. “I don’t… I won’t regret this, Sanguine— What I did. How I turned out. They’re all _alive_—"

“It’s not what you _wanted_, Kara,” Sanguine states softly. His voice dips into frustration, "It's not what you wanted!"

It doesn’t matter, because in a second the Prince of Madness reverts to her Daedric form. Sheogorath rises in height, smooths her clothes, and smiles with a gleam of smug satisfaction at Sanguine, a late answer accompanying the change, “No, but it’s what _I_ wanted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and with that daedraborn is officially complete  
thank u to everyone who read this  
whether for smut, for sanguine, for brynjolf, for vex, miraak, any or all the above  
your support has always been encouraging esp when i got stuck on chapters  
(or on the plot, which changed like 434343 times along the way?) 
> 
> i have plans to write another story that is the third part of the consumerism series. it will involve the companions and a non-dragonborn main heroine as well as one familiar face (which ya'll might've picked up on from one of the epilogues aha....) so if ya'll are interested in that feel free to check back in the future. :0  
as always, have a nice day, and thank you all once again for joining me on this wild ride. ^_^


End file.
